


Somebody to Love

by lovedawn



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, College, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Gay Male Character, Internalized Homophobia, LGBTQ, LGBTQ Character, Liberal Arts College, M/M, Minecraft, Requited Love, Slow Burn, Teen Angst, dreamwastaken - Freeform, georgenotfound - Freeform, mcyt - Freeform, mcyts - Freeform, minecraft youtubers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:21:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28229814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovedawn/pseuds/lovedawn
Summary: College AU.Sometimes George would close his eyes, and his eyes would wander to him.His eyes would caress Clay’s broad shoulders, his thoughts lingering on his charming smile, his fingers itching to come into contact with him... and for just a moment, he’d allow his mind to believe they were more than just friends.Until he would wake up, to see those light eyes meeting his own, and George’s heart would splinter.Because they were friends, nothing more.(Slow burn fan fiction, happy ending eventually, I promise!)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Darryl Noveschosch & Sapnap, Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound, Karl Jacobs/Sapnap
Comments: 35
Kudos: 94





	1. Hawthorne’s Liberal Arts College

**Author's Note:**

> Quick note that this book is only really vaguely based around their characters — whilst this is a DNF fanfic, I do not ship the in real life people, and I will respect their wishes if they ever say they’re uncomfortable with being shipped. Otherwise, enjoy! :))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: swearing, unhealthy relationships with mother, absence of paternal figure/father.
> 
> (These are recurring themes in the book, but not incredibly triggering. If you are triggered by absences of parental figures etc. this book may unfortunately not be for you.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear in mind I am British, so there may be some inaccurate representation of America in this book. Please be patient with my poor little British soul! :D

_August 15th_

(2:36 am) _Hey mum, it’s George here. My plane just touched down, I’m about to step down onto Florida ground. Wish me luck._

(2:37 am) _I am now walking to the baggage claim, but I’m not entirely sure where it is. American airports are really, really big. And scary._

(2:37 am) _There’s a lot of people here. They talk funny._

(2:42 am) _Good news, I just got to baggage claim. Bad news, I can’t find my stuff. I’m so, so tired._

(2:50 am) _I found my bags finally, and I’m now in an uber, driving to the college. The driver seems nice._

(2:51 am) _Scratch that, the driver isn’t nice. I think he’s trying to crash the car. A couple seconds ago he nearly drove the car into a pedestrian._

(2:54 am) _It’s going to be a long drive. Wish you were here with me, mum._

(2:56 am) _Mum?_

(2:56 am) _I know you’re not asleep, I can see you’re online._

(2:57 am) _You’re reading my messages, mum. Can you respond back?_

(2:59 am) _Ok, you don’t need to._

(2:59 am) _But remember I love you, mum. I love you and I always will._

(2:59 am) _And I know you’re not happy with me right now, but I promise I’ll visit. I’ll text you everyday._

(3:00 am) _I love you mum._

_Read at 3:00 am._

The car smelt of the faint trace of cigarette smoke, and a sweeter, smokey smell; he had a fearful inkling it was the smell of weed...

That did very little to calm him as he sat bolt upright in the back seat of the car. He was so uncomfortable; he had never imagined the sweltering heat he’d encounter in Florida, even though it was in the early hours of the morning. Perspiration clung to the back of his neck and beneath his arms; he could feel the fabric of his navy shirt dampen against the slick leather seat.

The uber driver was unfortunately suspicious, and judging from his slightly dazed, hysterical manner, George had a sneaking suspicion he wasn’t entirely sober.

At first, he’d attempted at striking up feeble small talk with the man, but his responses had been sharp and subdued, so very quickly George had grown silent. The glowing screen of his phone clasped in his hands reflected onto his face. The worry lines on his forehead were creased, his lips drawn into a thin line. His dark eyes searched the screen, as if desperately trying to find something, _anything_ , that would help slow the tempo of his beating heart.

He knew his mother was mad at him — _she had every right to be after the stunt he’d pulled_ , he had to remind himself.

”Uh, you can pull over just outside please,” George said in a quiet voice, catching the driver’s attention as the car approached campus.

To George’s relief, there didn’t seem to be many people around, if _any_ , at that, apart from a group of suspicious-looking strangers huddled by the gate, talking in loud, slurred voices. George presumed they were drunk. _Jesus_ , he thought to himself with a glower, _is everyone drunk or high in Florida, then?_

Hawthorne’s Liberal Arts College. That was it’s name — the name that George would remember forever and ever, the school that would echo through his mind for all eternity.

As George rather hastily got out the car, scrambling to get all his luggage (which wasn’t a huge amount in the first place, in retrospect), he looked up at the gloomy-looking exterior of the school. In its pictures online it looked much grander, much nicer than it did then — but George gave it pity points for it being dark outside. _Perhaps during proper daylight hours it would look better,_ he thought to himself. He wished he was more certain.

(3:43 am) _Hey mum, just thought I’d let you know I’m here now. It looks a bit gloomy, but I’m giving it a chance._

(3:55 am) _I just talked to the nice lady at the desk, she gave me a key to my dorm room. I hope my dorm mate’s asleep, I’m too tired to talk._

He bit back a sigh of frustration, swallowing thickly. It was nearly eight in the morning over in Britain, meaning his mum would be awake and beginning her day. She was clearly ignoring him. So, he turned to his second resort — his younger sister.

(3:56 am) _Hey Luce, it’s George. Just checking in, mum’s not answering my texts. Is she alright? Are you alright?_

(3:56 am) _I’m sorry._

(3:57 am) _I love you._

He was nearly about to put his phone away again, until the soft sound of a ping came from it, and with a sharp intake of surprise, George switched his phone back on and opened his messages app. It was his sister, typing.

(3:58 am) _Hi. Mum’s just gone to work, but I don’t think she’s going to respond for a few days. Sorry._

He could’ve sworn he could hear the sounds of his heart shattering in his chest. He heard a high-pitched humming in his ear, as he screwed his eyes shut. He felt pathetic, truly pathetic — here he was, a nineteen year old man, getting his heart broken by his fourteen year old sister’s words.

It had been his decision to leave, his choice — and he had known the consequences of his actions, he had known the repercussions his mother and sister would feel, leaving so soon after dad left. But he did it anyway.

He didn’t look at his phone again that night.

To his silent relief, when he entered the darkness of his new dorm room, he waited a few seconds in silence, but thankfully heard a soft symphony of little snores from the other side of the room, and he presumed his room mate was asleep.

As quietly as he could, he shuffled around the room, not bothering to sort anything out yet, but just wanting to sleep. It was eight in the morning back in Britain, and jet lag was stabbing him mercilessly in the back — he could feel his eyelids drooping, his eyes stinging in his sleep-deprived state. The most he did was change his top, to a cream one with shorter sleeves, and squirm until his shoes slipped off his feet.

Then he clambered into bed, allowing sleep to conquer him within minutes of his head hitting the pillow.

***

_August 15th_

”Well, how d’you know he’s not just some... rando? Like, off the streets?”

”Shut up, Sapnap, you heard Mrs Parker, my new roommate was meant to arrive yesterday. I guess this is him—”

”He wasn’t there when you fell asleep, was he?”

”No, his flight must’ve been delayed or something?”

”Flight?”

“Yeah, Mrs Parker said he’s flying to America to come to school here.”

”From where?”

”I dunno.”

”Damn... why the hell would anybody fly across the world to come to this shithole?”

”Language!”

”Shh! You’ll wake him up — come on, let’s just go to your room.”

George heard the sound of the door opening and shutting softly, and he strained his ears, listening gratefully as the voices and footsteps drifted down the hallway. And slowly, ever so slowly, he opened his eyes. He had awoken to the voices before (he wondered if they had ever tried to master the art of whispering, because apparently none of them had it nailed), but had promptly refused to open them then.

There had been three of them, he figured, all boys by the sound of it, but only one of them had been his roommate — he presumed it had been the one with the deepest voice. 

His eyes squinted, he looked around the room. The curtains were only partially open, allowing a sliver of bright sunshine to flood into the room. He realised the window was open; he could hear birds chirping, and the noise of voices outside.

The room itself was odd. On George’s side, it was barren and bare, the walls a dismal, murky cream colour, the carpet a gross navy, speckled with traces of stains accumulated over the years. There were faint marks of graffiti upon the walls — George squinted and saw a rather crude drawing of what looked to be a cartoon penis at eye level beside him.

On the other hand, his roommate’s side of the room was what could only be described as alive. There were pictures on the wall, posters of rock bands, even academic posters on the ceiling. There were plants on his side of the window sill, a desk beside his bed that was clustered with items. George saw a record player and a vintage, scarlet stereo on it, hidden amidst piles of books and vinyl records. His bed was neatly made, clothes folded and placed tidily on the foot of his bed. It was clean, but still clustered — George presumed this was due to the lack of space.

And gradually, with slight reluctance, George began to get out of bed. It was still warm, but there was an ever so gentle breeze flowing through the room.

He pulled the curtains open fully, and stretched out his pale limbs, yawning widely and rubbing the dampness and sleep from his eyes.

It took a while for him to unpack. He had packed plenty of clothes but not much else, exempt from a pair of old, tattered black converse, and a pair of exercise trainers. There was a wardrobe by the door, one that he hoped was shared, because he couldn’t see anywhere else to put his clothes.

Once he had finished, he looked around the room, but still was dreadfully downcast about his lack of decoration.

In his rush to leave the family house back in Britain after an explosive argument with his mother, he hadn’t packed anything but essentials, really. His black, plain backpack was full of the school equipment he brought: books, pens, textbooks...

And all of a sudden, the door was flung open.

”Sapnap, c’mon, I’ll just be a second—”

George spun quickly on his heel as the voice at the doorway melted into silence, and the boy stood in the doorway stared at him.

It was a boy with chestnut hair, neat and swept sideways on his head, shiny and healthy-looking. A pair of square glasses sat perched on the bridge of his nose, his eyes slightly magnified by them. He appeared to be slightly taller than George, perhaps stood at just under six foot.

_He looked friendly enough_ , George thought, trying to calm his slightly racing heart as he shifted awkwardly on his feet.

Thankfully, the boy stopped staring in that slightly unnerving manner, and instead his voice broke into a soft smile, and he stepped through the doorway.

”Oh, hullo!” he spoke brightly, as if he had not a care in the world, and it wasn’t a cause of concern to strike up conversation with a stranger.

”Hello,” George attempted his best smile, but his entire body felt awkward, one hand shoved hurriedly in his pocket, the other fiddling with the watch on his wrist anxiously.

”Bad, what’re you doing — Clay said we needed to meet him in — oh!”

A second boy entered the room; he was a lot louder, making both the boys wince at the volume, and ‘Bad’ turn his head to glare at him reproachfully.

”Sapnap! For _once_ , will you stop being so noisy and disruptive—"

”You must be the new roommate,” The boy spoke, and George took this moment to analyse him too.

He was a tiny bit shorter than his bespectacled friend, but seemed to be taller than George. His hair was dark and ruffled, standing up in odd directions. It was messy, only added to by the wide strip of fabric that ran round his head, tied in a hasty knot. The ends of the bandana flowed down to just past his ears.

He looked mischievous — his big, dark eyes sparking with signs of trouble, his mouth quirked upwards in a slight smirk that didn’t help the anxiousness settled in George’s stomach.

But he too allowed his face to break into a wide smile, and step forwards boldly, offering a hand to shake for George.

”Hey,” the boy grinned, tilting his head slightly as George gingerly took his hand, and shook it very firmly. “You... must be Clay’s new roommate.”

_Clay must be the boy with the deeper voice,_ George thought.

“Oh, yeah... I think so,” Georg offered a smile, as the boy released his hand. “I’m George, nice to meet you.”

The bespectacled boy, ‘Bad’, opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but he was right away interrupted by a noise of loud curiosity from the other boy.

”Wait, are you _British_?”

George bit down on his tongue, clenching his jaw slightly in concern as he nodded silently.

“Oh, sick!” the boy’s eyes widened in seemingly awe, and he looked at George in a new way, as if he were an animal at a zoo or something. “So does that mean you know the Queen?”

”Oh, for goodness’ sake,” the other boy, to George’s relief, intervened. “Don’t answer that — hello, I’m Darryl, call me Bad though. This is Sapnap. Don’t mind him, he’s a bit, er—”

”I’m awesome, shut it, Bad,” the boy called Sapnap said defensively, giving the taller boy a shove.

A short silence fell over them; Sapnap looked over George’s shoulder at his side of the room, and blinked at it, his eyes searching it with sharp curiosity. George felt discomfort rise in his chest.

”Are you going to unpack?” Sapnap asked innocently.

George felt his face begin to flush, “I — I already have.”

Sapnap’s eyes narrowed as he looked over George’s head once more. Then he blinked at the boy, “Oh. You don’t have very much stuff.”

Bad looked embarrassed _for_ George, kicking the back of Sapnap’s leg with a warning glare.

”Ow! What the fuck—”

”Language!” Bad hissed, then lowering his voice, “You’re so _insensitive_ —”

”No, no it’s fine,” George intervened before Bad could say much more, swallowing down the lump in his throat as he shifted awkwardly on his feet again, shifting the weight between each leg. “I came here in a bit of a rush, actually, I didn’t pack much.”

For the first time since they’d met, Sapnap seemed to know when his input was no longer welcome in the conversation, and he just nodded silently and politely.

There was another short silence, and Bad and Sapnap exchanged a small look between them. George stared down at his feet, persistently refusing to move his line of sight from his forest green socks upon his feet. His legs were bare, like the two boys in front of him, but his were pale, littered with traces of cuts and scrapes from early childhood, whereas the others’ were smooth and tanned a pleasant golden brown.

”Er, we actually came here for Clay’s wallet... he forgot it and asked us to bring it down,” Bad cleared his throat as George looked up, standing aside slightly.

”Oh, yeah sure, come in, sorry...”

Sapnap strolled past him, and George watched the way he walked as he searched the other side of the room.

He reeked of confidence, with just a hint of arrogance — but in a good way. He held himself like he was the tallest, most important person in the room, even as he whined to himself, wondering where it could be. George wished he could be as confident as that. He felt like the smallest, most unimportant person in the room at that moment.

“Actually...” Bad’s voice broke through George’s train of thought, and he glanced up at the boy. He seemed to be thinking, watching George with a small smile.

”What?” George blinked.

“Do you want to come with us?” he leaned against the wall, adjusting his glasses which were slipping down the bridge of his nose. He was giving George a soft smile as the boy stared at him with slight shock.

”Come with you?” George repeated.

Sapnap, who had let out a whoop of glee upon finding the black wallet George figured was this Clay person’s, slung an arm round George in enthusiasm, taking the shorter boy by surprise.

”Yeah! Join us!” Sapnap hooted, his voice rising in volume once more, becoming rather loud all of a sudden. 

George couldn’t help the slight discomfort at feeling this boy he didn’t really know flinging his arm round his shoulders. It made him feel very, very short.

”Where are you going?”

”Just to McCarthy’s record shop,” Bad said with a fond, faraway look on his face as he glanced out the window. “Clay loves his records — we go there at least once a week, just to listen to ‘em.”

“And since it’s our last day of freedom before the semester starts...” Sapnap unhooked his arm from round George’s lean shoulders, “Clay’s adamant on going.”

”Oh,” George couldn’t help but sound surprised.

When he heard they were ‘going out’ George expected them to be going to the cinema, maybe, doing something he expected American teenage boys did in movies. Going to a record shop wasn’t one of them, really.

”Try and conceal your excitement,” Sapnap grinned sarcastically, as Bad let out a chuckle.

”No, no!” George feebly grinned, feeling pink pigment flood his cheeks. “I’d love to come... if you don’t mind?”

”Well, that’s why we _asked_ you to come,” Sapnap grinned. “We’ll wait outside whilst you get changed.”

Suddenly George felt very self conscious of his clothes. Back in England he’d wear a pair of jeans, a t-shirt or hoodie, and a coat depending on the jacket. But here in Florida it was _hot_. He’d nearly had a heart attack earlier when he’d checked the weather app on his phone and it said the temperature in Orlando was ninety degrees. That was unimaginably hot to him, until he realised it was reading in fahrenheit rather than celcius. Even then, he found it to be far hotter than England was in August.

In the end he decided on a pair of grey shorts, the ones he used to use when he went for a run back in England, and a plain red t-shirt. At least he presumed it was his red one — the fact he was colourblind didn’t exactly help his technique of mixing colours in his outfits.

He snatched his wallet and phone as he made to leave the room, slipping on his trainers, purely out of having very little choice.

Sapnap and Bad were stood out in the hallway, leaned casually against opposing walls, chatting quietly and chuckling. They had clearly known each other for a while.

“Oh, here the man is,” Sapnap grinned, and the two boys beckoned him over. “You look like a proper Floridian, you do,” he eyed George’s trainers with a little smirk, “Except the shoes — wear funky-looking sandals and you’d fit right in.”

”Lay off him,” Bad scoffed, as he spotted the look of alarm that crossed over George’s face. “You’ll be _fine_.”

George looked down at Bad’s feet, and saw that he was wearing sandals.

He looked over at Sapnap, however, and saw that he, like George, was wearing trainers — white ones, or rather ones that were probably once white, now caked with dirt. They were now grey and brown.

George frowned at Sapnap, “But you’re wearing trainers too.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he grinned, cocking his head, as Bad snapped, (“Language!”), “I’m not from Florida — I’m a Texas boy, through and through.”

George blushed, looking down at the floor. _How was he supposed to know? Americans all seem the same to him..._

“You’re just as insane as us Floridians, though,” Bad laughed.

“Wait, why are you over here in Florida for school then?” George frowned at Sapnap before he had enough chance to react to Bad’s statement.

The boy looked at him, his gaze unwavering, his eyes slightly widened, as if he were confused by George’s question. “Well,” he spoke slowly, still not looking away from George, “Hawthorne’s has kids from all over. My mommy sent me here for a good schooling, I guess.”

_Mommy_. It was so weird hearing how he spoke about his mother, a tone of pure affection, but it made George happy — happy _for_ him. _He_ always just called his mother ‘mum’. Anything else and she’d glare at him.

“Why’d _you_ come here from England?” Sapnap asked, sounding curious.

Out of pure instinct, George clenched his jaw, staring at the ground as they walked through the chilled, shadowy interior of the building. He’s hoped Bad would’ve jumped in; told him that he didn’t have to answer that, that it was _his_ life... but he said nothing. In fact, Bad seemed to be studying him the same way Sapnap was.

”I, er,” George found his voice, swallowing dryly. “I don’t know if I should say...”

”Oh, I told _you_ , that’s no fair,” Sapnap pouted, feigning offence.

George felt guilt at his comment. He screwed his features together, upset and disappointed that he couldn’t find it in himself to tell them. He summoned up the remaining courage he had in him and spoke, revealing as little information as he could without blatantly _lying_.

“Well, it was more just... needing to get out of Britain, really,” he spoke gingerly, treading over such a delicate matter, rifling through his darker thoughts and memories. “Just sick of the country, really.”

”So you came to _America_?” Sapnap scrunched his features up into a look of disgust, making Bad laugh, and after a slight moment of hesitation, making George laugh too, a blossoming smile creeping onto his face.

The three boys walked through the school, and George felt pleased to report that Hawthorne’s Liberal Arts College looked slightly nicer in the daylight than it did in the darkness of the early morning. The campus was reasonably large, not as large as the college George went to back in Britain, but still big enough that he was scared of getting lost in it.

When he voiced this concern to Sapnap and Bad, they waved their hands with little concern.

”You’ll be _fine_ , that’s what everyone thinks when they first come here,” Sapnap said, appearing unbothered, but it did not much to soothe the worry in George’s chest.

They took a deemed ‘short cut’ through a hole in the back of somebody’s fence, something Bad told George in a hushed voice was Sapnap’s find. Apparently he found the hole after he was chased by campus security for using spray paint on the chemistry block.

It seemed, to George, that Sapnap was somewhat of a troublemaker.

“So, where is this record place?” George spoke up rather hoarsely, the blaring sunlight blaring down into his skin. It made him feel sleepy, and it didn’t help that he only got around five hours of sleep that night.

”McCarthy’s is just round the corner,” Bad said.

”Is, er, _Clay_ already there?” George spoke timidly, the name sounding so foreign on his tongue.

Sapnap clearly heard his timidity, and grinned back at him, looking amused. 

Bad spoke, “Yeah, he always gets there when the shop first opens at eight sharp. Says that’s when there are the least amount of people there, and when there’s ‘best pick’ for records.”

”I don’t see why he’s so... _weird_ about it,” Sapnap grumbled as he shielded his eyes from the sun with one hand. “Nobody else even _goes_ there.”

“Don’t make fun of him,” Bad said kindly, “He loves his records.”

He snorted loudly in response, “I realised. He spends all of his savings on them.”

McCarthy’s was in a rather run-down state, George realised as they stood in front of it. It’s front was painted in what once was probably a vibrant, bright red, the colour of the prettiest of poppies, but was now a coat of peeling, washed-out red paint. The words ‘McCarthy’s Records’ were attached to the front in large, yellow letters, but a few of the letters had gone missing. The windows, however were squeaky clean — something the owner clearly took pride in. Signs were hung in the window, reading ‘SALE! 50% OFF’ and ‘Last Chance!’ in bright colours.

”Welcome to McCarthy’s!” Bad placed one hand on George’s left shoulder lightly, using his other hand to dramatically wave it before them in a singular motion, showing it off to George proudly. “Heaven on Earth.”

And with one hand on his shoulder, Bad guided George forwards, as Sapnap pushed the door open, and they entered, a bell ringing to show this.

And as soon as they entered, George was engulfed in an odd sort of comfort. The walls were a warm red, just like the outside, but it was richer, darker. The walls were lined with shelves, each holding an unimaginable number of vinyl records. Pushed against each wall were cabinets, all holding vinyls, sorted in alphabetical order. In the very centre of the room were more cabinets, and two plump armchairs. They were antique-looking, with patchy velvet fabric, but they looked to have once been grand and regal-looking.

It smelt of roses. George smelt the familiar scent as soon as he entered, it hitting him like a kick to the gut. There was the faint scent of cigarette smoke, too.

”Ah, boys!” came a loud, yet hoarse and scratchy voice from the other end of the shop, and an elderly woman emerged from the back room.

Her hair was speckled with dark roots, but was mostly a silvery grey. Her eyes had crinkled edges; it made her look over-the-moon happy as she smiled toothily at the boys that just entered. She had plenty of wrinkles, each carved into her tanned, weathered face, dotted with freckles and moles.

”G’morning, Miss McCarthy!” Sapnap called, stuffing one hand in his pocket as he waved rather vigorously to the elderly woman, who was making her way towards the group.

“Good mornin’ sweetheart,” she gushed, bringing one skinny, weathered hand up to pat the top of his head. This seemed quite a struggle due to the massive height difference between them — she was, in comparison to the boys, incredibly short.

Her accent, George realised with a pang, wasn’t American. Rather it sounded Welsh — refreshing to him after the choruses of American accents he had heard that day.

“Oh, and...” her voice caught in her throat, lost in the chilled, old music reverberating through the shop.

Then came the moment George had been bracing himself for: the woman, Miss McCarthy, as Sapnap called her, looked over, and her eyes fell on him. Instantly, her eyes filled with curiosity.

He could feel her piercing blue eyes scanning him, like an x-ray, really, looking over his body. And right away, the hairs rose on his arms, and discomfort clawed at his insides, the confidence he’d attempted to show upon entering dissipating instantly, ripped into shreds. Her eyes followed his bone structure, dancing up to his face, and searching his eyes.

“And who’s this young gentleman?” she finally spoke, after what felt like _hours_ to George. Whilst her voice was still pleasant and her tone dripping with unsuccessfully hidden curiosity, it held a slight _edge_ she hadn’t used with Sapnap.

It seemed to George like suspicion, maybe, or slight caution. He wondered feebly how he’d managed to fuck up without even speaking yet.

”Oh,” Bad spoke hurriedly when George made no move to, “this is Clay’s new roommate. Just across the hall.”

And just like that — almost as if Bad had spoken a magic word, the tension on her face was broken, and her eyes lit up in joy and surprise.

”Oh! Oh yes, sorry dear!” she bustled over to him at remarkable speed for someone who appeared so frail, a sweet, toothy grin present on her face. “Clay _did_ mention actually he was getting a new roommate.”

Her wrinkled hands clasped on his, holding them tightly. Her hands felt soft, but her fingers were laden with so many odd-looking rings her hands were heavy and slightly cold. Gingerly, he relaxed his hands into her palms and smiled.

”Good morning,” he said politely, forcing himself to hold eye contact, “Nice to meet you, I’m George.”

As soon as he spoke, her eyes lit up with excitement and enthusiasm, and he clasped his hands even tighter. He could feel her rings digging uncomfortably into the skin of his hands.

”Oh my! You’re a Brit?” she looked at him with wide eyes as Sapnap snorted.

He nodded timidly.

”Oh bless your soul, what in the heavens are you doing here in America?” now she spoke, her Welsh accent was becoming even more prominent, ripping through her voice as if begging for attention.

George struggled to speak, feeling very taken aback.

”He’s at Hawthorne’s now, remember?” Sapnap jumped in; George sent him a grateful look, “Clay’s roommate.”

”Oh, yes, yes, of course,” Miss McCarthy smiled with the same enthusiasm at George, her eyes warm. “Bless you... so softspoken and polite too, like our Darryl here..." George could see Bad blush furiously at the use of his name, and Sapnap snicker behind her.

”Hey, where is Clay anyway?” Bad spoke in what seemed to be a desperate attempt to change the topic.

Miss McCarthy gestured behind her with one hand airily. “He’s in the back—”

”I’m here.”

The voice broke through the conversation, interrupting Miss McCarthy effectively, despite not being very loud; it did, however, hold a divine confidence and serenity that made everyone look over to the source of sound.

George’s breath caught in his throat as, in a clash of fresh, mossy juniper and dark chocolate brown, a piercing pair of green eyes met his. And they didn’t look away.

”Ah,” the spokesperson said. “You must be my new roommate.”


	2. Dusty Vinyl Records

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: swearing, mentions absence of fathers, loss of a parent (only mentioned briefly).

_August 15th_

”You must be my new roommate.”

The words resonated in George’s mind, ringing in his ears like an echo. His mind was screaming at him to _look away! look away!_ but he couldn’t find it in himself to break eye contact.

The boy who emerged from the back room... well, he seemed to have no flaws. George felt his insides squirm, his mind contort, shards of jealousy rooting themselves in his chest and slowly twisting deeper and deeper as his eyes scanned the appearance of his roommate, Clay, as they called him.

He was tall. As in holy fuck, _what the hell are you eating to get that tall_ type tall. He was well clear of a head taller than George, and as he approached, the shorter couldn’t help but feel intimidation rising in his chest. Every step he took was purposeful, his heavy boots stepping on to the floor. His cheekbones were high, looking almost aristocratic.

His face was a tanned golden colour, slightly pinker in tone on his cheeks, as if he’d caught the sun recently. He had scattered freckles running across his nose, with the ever so faint trace of facial hair caressing his jawline. His chin was sharp, a slight cleft in it — George thought it complimented his face. His hair was far longer than George’s, just brushing the tips of his ears; the roots were a darker, dirty blond, and the ends golden and sunkissed.

”Ah, there he is,” Miss McCarthy beamed, her voice gentle and soft, oozing with fondness as she finally released George’s hands and beckoned Clay over.

Instantly he hurried over to her side, and with zero hesitation, jutted out his arm for her to hold on to, which she took gladly, looking up at the much taller boy, who finally stopped looking at George, and was now smiling down at Miss McCarthy fondly.

”Oh, you treat me too well,” the old lady seemed to almost grimace, but Clay’s smile merely grew.

A small chuckle tumbled past his slightly chapped lips, flowing like trickling water, the sound of a young child’s laughter, that suggested perhaps he wasn’t as ‘mature’ as George first thought.

”Oh,” Bad suddenly spoke up, as if just remembering something. He gestured to Clay whilst looking over at George with a slight smile. “Here, George, this is Clay. Clay, this is George. You’re, well, you’re roommates now.”

He felt a heat seep up past his colour, and he felt his temperature rise as he forced himself to smile meekly at the boy across from him.

Clay’s eyes met his once more. He wasn’t grinning like he was beforehand when he saw Sapnap and Bad, or even Miss McCarthy, but it was a small smile nevertheless.

The corners of his lips curled up into a small smile; it was done with slight hesitation, his eyes holding an ounce of caution like Miss McCarthy did. _George wouldn’t be surprised if they were distantly related_.

Slowly, Clay used his one free hand and held it out in front of him, between the two boys, looking down at him with a crinkle of amusement in his eyes as a gradual blush battled its way onto George’s cheekbones.

”Nice to meet you,” George said as loudly and as confidently as he could. He was rather proud of that newfound confidence as he took Clay’s hand and shook it gingerly. “I’m George.”

”Clay,” was all he said in response. George noticed that as soon as he began to speak and his accent was identifiable, a spark of curiosity flashed in his mossy green eyes. “Clay Johnson. Nice to meet you, too,” he seemed to add as an afterthought.

”What records have you found today, then?” Sapnap eyed the boy with a soft grin as Bad began to rifle through the boxes of vinyls.

Instantly, Clay’s face split into a look of joy, as he untucked two record covers from between his arm and side.

He showed them to Sapnap with an enthusiastic grin, and George, who was trying to regain control of himself, leaned over to look too. In his hands were two vinyls, one of them looking clean and shiny and new, with a picture of an album George recognised instantly on the front. It was Ricky Montgomery’s album — _Montgomery Ricky._ (Clever, clever name.) George recognised it right away with a pang due to his sister back at home listening to him all the time. He’d refused to listen to it.

The second was an older one, the edges scruffy and evidently had been through several owners and users. It was an Amy Winehouse album — _Back to Black_. By the look on Clay’s face, he was incredibly excited by his finds.

”I’ve been looking for the Amy Winehouse one for years and years,” the tall boy grinned, waving the vinyls in front of Sapnap’s face.

Sapnap glanced at George with a grin, then back at Clay, nodding slowly in a teasing manner, as if he were talking to a toddler or small child, “That’s... that’s _very_ good, Clay.”

”Oh shove off,” Clay rolled his eyes, tucking the records back under his arm and looking down at Miss McCarthy. “Can I buy these now?”

George he watched Miss McCarthy smile, and allow Clay to take her back to the till. _They looked like a mother and son._

It appeared Sapnap was thinking similarly, because he nudged George on the shoulder and spoke in a low voice by his ear, “They’re really close. McCarthy loves him. We’re practically the only people who come here — without Clay in particular, she would’ve gone bankrupt by now.”

George was silent for a moment before he glanced at Sapnap, frowning. “How has _he_ not gone bankrupt by now?”

Sapnap whispered back, looking at the tall boy with an unidentifiable expression, “His mom sends him money all the time.”

”Oh,” George suddenly felt a feeling of slight jealousy rush over him again. He knew his parents would sure as hell never had given him money, and now, when his dad had left and his mother was pissed at him, he knew any money sent to him would probably come with a note attached, reading: keep it and don’t come back to England. “And she just... _lets_ him spend it on music?”

”Well,” now Sapnap was grinning widely, “She thinks he’s spending it on books, and academic things. He hasn’t told her — thinks she may not take it too well if she finds out he’s spending her bank account on old, musty vinyls down at the local shop.”

George let out a small chuckle, and his eyes strayed to the back of Clay, who was laughing and chatting to Miss McCarthy.

He couldn’t help the curiosity he felt around Clay. He figured there was more to him than met the eye.

After a few minutes of aimlessly wandering around the shop, waiting for Clay to be done, the three boys and George reluctantly emerged into the sweltering Florida sun.

It was hotter now than it had been before, in the earlier hours of the morning, and far fewer people were out, probably taking the sensible option of staying inside on a hot summer’s day.

As they walked, George couldn’t help but feel slightly left out — he didn’t blame them, he _was_ , after all, the newcomer, and they’d been best friends for... well, be didn’t know. But judging by the way they acted around each other, a long time.

But when Bad noticed him looking rather downtrodden, he slowed down a bit to walk beside the boy, and George felt a little burst of gratitude.

”So, how are you finding Florida, then?” he smiled down at George as Clay and Sapnap walked ahead, chatting and laughing loudly.

George hesitated, not wanting to say something rude, but Bad clearly saw this, and broke into laughter. George gave him a little grin, feeling slight pride at the fact he was able to make him laugh.

”Well...” he spoke slowly despite himself, feeling Bad’s expectant gaze on him. “I dunno. Definitely different from England.”

“Yeah? In what way?”

He pondered over this for a moment.

”The people in America... you all speak funny,” he grinned, again feeling proud that he made Bad snort, nodding amusedly. “But... people in Florida seem quite laid back, you know? In England things are rather strict in school.”

”Laid back?” Bad looked interested to hear his point of view. “That’s weird, I always thought England would be really chill about things.”

”We are sometimes,” George shrugged as he followed the taller boy through the hole in the fence. “I guess the English are politer, but in a kind of... _be polite or else_ type way.”

Bad let out an ungracious snort, and George chuckled.

Then, as they walked up the grass lawns towards the centre of campus, Sapnap stopped in his tracks and spun on his heel, his eyes spinning to George.

”Why’d you stop?” Clay asked, his voice sounding rather impatient, and George noticed his fingers twitching and fiddling with the corners of his vinyls. George realised he probably wanted to play them in his room. _Their_ room.

”We should give you a tour of campus,” Sapnap said in a thoughtful tone, his eyes never straying from George.

Immediately, George’s eyebrows rose, his lips parting slightly, then firmly closing once more. His eyes searched Sapnap’s face, then Bad’s, who wore an enthused expression. Then, his eyes swivelled quickly to Clay’s, and saw the flicker of reluctance and disappointment in his eyes.

”Well, what d’you say?” Bad nudged him.

”Er,” George glanced at him, and upon seeing his happy-looking smile, drew in a breath and nodded with a small smile. He didn’t look at Clay. “Yeah... yeah, that sounds great. Thanks.”

”Oh, awesome!” Sapnap clapped his hands together, turning his head and looking around at the campus behind him, his head turning back and forth, “Right, we could start—”

”You guys go on without me,” Clay spoke up, and all eyes fell on him, but he didn’t look up from the two vinyls he was gripping. “I’m going back to the dorm.”

Then, with no further words, he spun and walked off.

Bad looked very disapproving, like an irritated, disappointed parent.

“Clay—” he began, but George stopped him.

”It’s alright,” he shook his head, “Let him go. You guys can take me on a tour without him, can’t you?”

Sapnap jumped over, slinging an arm round George’s shoulder. He grinned, “You bet we can! Come on, let’s get moving before we all melt into puddles in the sun — I’m gonna overheat...”

The now three boys began to walk, but Bad still looked forlorn as he stared at the building where Clay had disappeared off to.

He sighed, “Honestly, he’s so...” he seemed to struggle to find the right word, “Sometimes he can be so caught up in his own little world.”

Sapnap, however, seemed to take little notice of Bad’s muttering, and lead George over to the front of the school, Bad following in hot pursuit.

The front of Hawthornes was a tall, incredibly vast building, made of red stone bricks, with vines of ivy snaking up the walls, and palm trees dotted around the grounds. There was a long gravel driveway, curling round the entrance, where there were only a few cars parked. The door to the school was large, taller than probably necessary, looking very prestigious with its wide stone staircase leading up to it.

”The entrance to hell,” Sapnap spoke with a sarcastic tone, displaying his arms widely.

Then, he gestured to a group of boys by the side of the entrance building, stood in a huddle of about eight, all dressed in dark clothes, with not much skin showing despite it being a hot day. Most of them were clasping cigarettes between their fingers, and one of them was leaning against a parked motorcycle.

”You see them?” Sapnap spoke in a quieter tone, perhaps the quietest George had heard him.

George nodded silently.

“They’re there every night, every day,” he whispered dramatically. “People just call them ‘the frat boys’. Everyone sees them, but no one knows their names.”

Bad intervened quietly, watching them suspiciously as they began to walk up the stairs leading up to the entrance, “Correction: nobody knows if they even go to this school.”

”Some think they’re kids who _used_ to go to school,” Sapnap added as they reached the doorway and passed the entrance.

The Entrance Hall, as George’s ‘tour guides’ called it, was exactly that. It was a large, echoey room with two desks by the doorway, where two strict-looking ladies sat, glasses perched on their noses, peering over their lenses at them as they walked in.

Sapnap gave a nervous chuckle and stiffly waved, at which they did nothing but narrow their eyes at. George hid his laughter behind his hands.

”I think they’re vampires,” Sapnap snapped once they were out of earshot. “They never go outside. And they never _ever_ sleep.”

Bad scoffed at this idea loudly, and Sapnap looked offended, beginning to defend his theory. “No, no listen! I swear I saw one of them drinking from this coffee cup once, and when they moved it away... I saw a ring of _red_ round their mouth!” He stared expectantly at Bad. He then rolled his eyes and hissed dramatically, “ _Blood_!”

The tour round campus took far longer than George was expecting. Turns out the campus was bigger than George had first thought — and he also learned very quickly that even Bad and Sapnap, who had been at the school for _ages_ now, they still lost themselves sometimes.

(“Wait, didn’t we _just_ come this way?”

”No no, we came from past that classroom there and round the History block.”

”I thought we went _through_ the History block?”

Then, a simultaneous... “What?”)

But nevertheless, they turned out to be rather entertaining and useful tour guides, handing out little snippets of gossips and rumours. As they passed a room at the end of a hallway with a closed door, Sapnap and Bad seemed to thoroughly enjoy educating George about the school Dean.

”That’s the Dean’s office...” Bad told George in a lowered voice, narrowing his eyes and squinting at the window in the door, which was of course hopeless due to a blind being tugged down over the window.

”A Dean?” George frowned, he too staring at the door, “Like... like a headteacher?”

Sapnap nodded, “Yeah, they just call ‘em the Dean because this school fucking—” (“Language!”) “—loves being all pretentious and pish-posh.”

”Nobody can _really_ remember what they look like,” Bad continued in a hushed voice, pulling the two further down the corridor and safely out of earshot. “Every now and then you’ll get a letter from the Dean in your cubby in the mailroom, but it’s always just signed ‘Dean’ and nothing else.”

”Do they just... never leave their office?” George blinked, moving his legs faster to keep up with Bad.

”Pretty much,” Sapnap shrugged from his other side. Upon seeing George’s surprised expression, he grinned widely, “Here at Hawthorne’s, people are _weird_. It’s something you have to stay wary of. Oh, and rumours spread easily.”

”They do?”

”Yeah, last year there was a rumour these first year kids were performing like... _rituals_ in the sports hall changing rooms,” Sapnap’s eyes glinted.

”Rituals?” George frowned warily.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bad waved a hand, not looking very concerned. “As Sapnap said, rumours spread _real_ easy here. Most of them are false.”

Sapnap lowered his voice to nothing more than a whisper, cupping his hand, and hissed to George, “ _Most_ of them...”

He cackled loudly at the horrified look that flashed on George’s face.

Bad clipped him round the head with one hand, “Sapnap! Quit scaring him!”

***

It was mid-afternoon when the three boys returned to the common area in their block.

The common area was a large room, with plenty of natural light streaming in from open windows. When George first was told of this room by Bad, he predicted something like in Harry Potter, but was immediately let down when they entered the room. It was a near-empty room, exempt from tables dotted here and there for students to study at, and not enough chairs. It seemed there were rarely enough chairs.

”Come on,” Sapnap began to ascend to the first floor via the staircase. (Their dorms were on the first floor.) “Let’s see how the music geek is doing.”

The ‘music geek’ was, as predicted, in the dorm room. He was on the floor, his leg dangerously close to the doorway, nearly resulting in Sapnap tripping over his long limb and breaking something (either himself or a possession of George’s).

“Dude, what the hell—” Sapnap screeched after he’d regained his balance by clinging onto the taller frame of Bad, and was now glaring at Clay.

The boy in question was sprawled out on the carpet, his back resting against the wardrobe behind him, and he was sitting a cushion from his bed. He looked unbothered at Sapnap nearly tripping, instead rubbing his ankle with a faint pout of indignation on his features.

George stood awkwardly by the door, noticing that the record player on Clay’s desk was now playing, a new vinyl spinning placidly. The room was flooded with music, not too loud but loud enough so that the lyrics were clear. He vaguely recognised the song.

”That was my _leg_ ,” the blonde said, sounding annoyed, but his voice slightly whiny, making Bad shake his head.

”And _that_ ,” Bad shook Sapnap’s grip on his forearm, and stood up straighter, massaging the spot he’d been held on to, “that was my _arm_ , Sapnap.”

“Oh geez, I’m sorry, you big babies,” Sapnap rolled his eyes dramatically, and flopped down on the floor beside Clay, so his back was resting against the frame of the boy’s bed.

George awkwardly perched on the edge of his bed, swinging his legs perpetually, trying to relax his body, but he found it hard to do so. His bed felt uncomfortable, and unlike the one he slept in so peacefully back in England.

Bad had wandered over to the desk with the record player, bending down and adjusting his glasses, ”What track is this?”

Clay lifted his head so sharply George could’ve sworn the boy got whiplash. If he did, however, he didn’t show so.

Instead, he was staring wide-eyed and unblinkingly at Bad, clearly astounded. His mouth hung open, looking rather comical, but Bad didn’t laugh. The bespectacled boy simply stared back, meeting the blond’s gaze with ease. Sapnap, however, _did_ laugh.

”Dude,” he let out a giggle, looking between Clay and Bad like he was watching a tennis match. “I think you’ve finally broken him.”

He was promptly ignored by Clay, who blinked and spoke with disbelief dripping from his voice.

”It’s _John Mayer_ ,” he said slowly, as if talking to a young child who was struggling with English. Bad stared at him, frowning. Clay gasped loudly, “Don’t tell me you don’t know who John Mayer is—” the boy, looking slightly amused, shook his head slowly, “—Oh dear _Lord_! Have I taught you nothing in the time I’ve known you — you...” Clay got to his feet, hurriedly joining Bad by the desk.

For a moment, he ruffled through sheets and other records, until his hand emerged and, triumphant, he held the vinyl in front of Bad’s face like a trophy. “You — it’s John Mayer!”

”Yes,” Bad spoke slowly, gingerly pushing the vinyl case out of his face, and back to Clay’s torso. “You’ve said that. Should I know him? Who is he?”

”Only one of the best songwriters of the twenty-first century...” Clay hissed, hitting his friend gently on the chest with the vinyl as Sapnap and George looked on, amused.

George felt a nudging on his lower leg, and he looked down at Sapnap on the floor opposite, who grinned to him, “You see?” he pointed sideways to Clay, “A _music geek_.”

George just returned the smile, as his attention was stolen by Clay loudly speaking, jabbing a finger at Sapnap.

”Well do _you_ know Mayer?”

The boy adjusted the headband round his head, and shrugged, “Sounds familiar.”

Still looking disapproving and unsatisfied with Sapnap’s answer, Clay looked over to George. He raised his eyebrows silently, without saying a word, but George knew what he was asking. He could feel Clay’s eyes travelling across his face as he swallowed.

”Yeah,” George shrugged, speaking far quieter than he intended to. He cleared his throat and spoke again. “I — yeah. I think my dad liked — _likes_ him.”

He caught himself, the past tense verb slipping past his lips like the cruelly cold collision of ice water against the warm summer’s air. It hissed and fizzed in his mouth as he clenched his jaw. He felt an unmeasurable feeling rise in his gut, contorting through his entire body as he tried to force himself to stop thinking about it.

_Stop, stop, stop. It was an easy mistake; anybody could’ve done it_... but George had made that mistake before — thinking about his father like he was completely gone, like he was... dead.

_”He may as well be dead, George,”_ his mum’s words echoed in his mind, harsh and cruel. _“He’s dead to us, you hear me?”_

When George had shaken himself from the dark thoughts swimming through his mind, he zoned into the conversation around him with a shaky breath.

Bad was speaking teasingly, “There you go, Clay, now you have someone to talk to about this John Mayer guy.”

”Yeah,” he heard Sapnap agree, “Let’s just be grateful it’s not us...”

Then George breathed in through his nostrils, a long inhale that nearly made his eyes water oddly. An inhale that brought a gust of humid air into his nostrils. He itched his tickled nose.

Then, he became hyper-aware of eyes on him. They felt like they were drilling into his skull, so deep that those eyes had access to everything in his mind. Feeling confused, George glanced up, and for what felt like the hundredth time that day, his eyes met a bright green pair looking right back.

Clay was watching him. It was in a way that made George feel like he was under spotlight, exposed for everyone to see. It felt as though all his insecurities, all his thoughts, all his worries were being yelled out for the world to see.

_“George’s a wussy! George’s insecure! George left his family! George’s just like his dad!”_

Yet, to George’s own surprise, he didn’t look away. And neither did Clay. The eye contact remained, and to be frank, Clay seemed just as surprised as he felt that George hadn’t looked away yet.

Something had changed in his eyes. It was less curiosity now; more understanding. It was like he had connected the dots. And suddenly he was viewing George in a new light—

“Clay?” came the voice of Sapnap.

”Hm?” he still didn’t look away, but his body language teetered more towards Sapnap now. And finally, the eye contact was broken.

It felt like a gust of fresh air; George exhaled and inhaled heavily through his mouth, like he’d just done a great deal of exercise. He realised that he must’ve been holding his breath.

”You alright?” Sapnap was frowning now, looking at Clay then waveringly glancing at George, who quickly averted eye contact.

_He’d had enough awkward eye contact for the day_ , George thought to himself.

”Me? Yeah, I’m fine,” Clay seemed to be back ‘down to business’, spinning on his heel and starting to blabber on to Bad about John Mayer. Bad looked less enthusiastic about this.

It was later in the afternoon after an hour of listening to John Mayer (which they all begrudgingly had to agree _was_ a very talented artist) that George decided he was going to take a nap. He could feel jet lag once again catching up on him, and after rather a lot of walking, his limbs were aching, his eyelids heavy.

Bad of course was a perfect gentleman, and picked up on this. He then suggested they leave him be, and the three other boys left the dorm room. George had a sneaking suspicion they were just going across the hall, where Bad and Sapnap’s dorm was.

He fell asleep within minutes of crawling beneath the blanket. As uncomfortable as his bed was, and as much as he new he’d wake up in a few hours dazed and stiff all over, he was too tired to care at that moment. And when he awoke later, the watch on his wrist told him it was seven o’clock in the evening. His nap had lasted a few hours.

He actually nearly stood on it — but beside his bed on the floor was a Tupperware box, and upon closer inspection, George realised it was a box of food. (Curry, to be precise.)

He reckoned one of the boys had put it beside his bed whilst he was sleeping; earlier during his ‘tour’ they had shown him the cafeteria, and Sapnap had told him the food ‘tasted like dog shit’. He presumed this was said food.

But, as he opened the tub, and got a sniff of the food, causing his stomach to growl ferociously, his hunger got in the way of his caution.

Perhaps it _was_ the hunger that blocked his sense of reality, but George didn’t think the food was all too bad — not top tier curry, but good enough for his empty stomach that hadn’t eaten all day.

So, in perfect content, George sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor, his spine resting against his bed frame, his naked feet and bare legs cross-legged beneath him.

He sat there for a while, chewing on his curry, gazing, transfixed, out the open window to his right. It was only half-past seven now, so the day was still light outside, but it was undeniably cooler, and there were wisps of cloud traveling across the blue sky.

He watched the traces of cloud, listened to the chirping of birds in trees; also he overheard a chattering of voices out on the lawns. It seemed people were enjoying their last moments of freedom before the semester began.

Despite getting in a few hours of sleep, he could still feel the grips of tiredness threatening to pull him down into the depths of unconsciousness once more, so he forced himself to _do_ something.

So minutes later he found himself packing his school bag for the next day, and reading through the various textbooks and materials he’d brought for classes the next day.

Back in Britain he was majoring in English Literature and History. He hoped to continue this at Hawthorne’s, but he still held various doubts — after all, it was rare to transfer colleges or universities, especially ones in different _continents_. He couldn’t help but feel concern over how behind he may be here in America.

Gradually, time trickled away, and hours passed. They felt like seconds. But George could tell it had been hours from the sudden lack of natural light. He’d had to switch on the lamp by his bed.

All of a sudden, the serene silence in the room (alongside his train of thought) was broken by the sound of the door to the dorm opening gently. And George’s eyes widened upon seeing Clay stood in the doorway.

”Oh, you’re up,” Clay said, his voice soft and quiet, as he stepped into the room, and shut the door quietly behind him. “I thought you’d be asleep.”

There was a short pause, as George tried to gather his thoughts, and use them to form coherent words. He cleared his throat a bit and sent the boy a hesitant smile, “I was. But I figured now would be a good time to get some last minute schoolwork done.”

”Cutting it close,” Clay said as he side-stepped past the mass of sheets and books George had spread across the floor, surrounding where he sat like an ocean of paper. George gave an awkward chuckle.

Silence fell once more. The air suddenly felt rather heavy and tense as Clay rummaged around his clothes, and George sat in stiff silence, chewing the inside of his cheek. He wondered whether Clay would appreciate small talk. Judging by George’s quick judge of his character, most likely not.

Things with Clay weren’t as easy-going as they were with Sapnap and Bad.

Whilst he seemed like a perfectly nice, friendly guy, in contrast to the loud, chaotic character of Sapnap and the bubbly, talkative personality of Bad, he was somewhat of an anomaly to George.

And that bugged him.

It bugged him greatly that he didn’t know what to say or what to do around him; it was like the blond-haired boy had built up an invisible wall all around him, and only let his guard down with a few people. Apparently George wasn’t one of those just yet.

”Did you like the food?” the voice from Clay came from across from him, his tone polite and calm, but it still jolted George from his thoughts.

George looked up quickly, then instantly regretted it, his eyes widening, and a deep red flushing his face as he looked away. Clay was in the middle of changing, already in a pair of comfortable-looking shorts. When George looked up, all he got a glimpse of was Clay’s exposed back, but that was enough to make him look away.

”Er,” George fumbled with his words, pressing a cool hand to one of his cheeks as he felt his face burn. “Er, yeah, it was alright, actually. Did Sapnap bring it up for me? Or Bad?”

Clay paused, then spun round, so George could now see his face looking down at him.

His face had broken into a grin, one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle jubilantly, and dimples form on his cheeks. He suppressed a chuckle as he spoke sincerely, “No, that was me.”

Instantly, George went red.

Embarrassment and shame arose in his throat, an apology ready on the tip of his tongue, prepared to be let loose, but George just stared at Clay’s look of genuine amusement, and he swallowed down the dreaded concern. _He’s not taking it seriously, George. So neither should you_.

Instead he let out an ever so small chuckle, and said apologetically, “Oh, I’m sorry. And... er, thank you.”

”No worries,” Clay grinned, turning away once more and crouching down to put the piles of clothes away on his bed into some under-bed compartments.

They lapsed into a silence once more, but it was more comfortable, now. George could still _see_ Clay’s smile flashing in his mind, even when he closed his eyes — he could still _feel_ the happiness and amusement radiating off of him.

The only sounds in the room was the occasional turning of a textbook page, and the closing and opening of drawers.

”I’m going to sleep now,” Clay spoke, turning round and eyeing the lamp by George’s head. “Are — are you heading to bed soon?”

”Oh, yeah,” George said, closing the textbook slowly, glancing at the page number. _Fifteen. Fifteen. Wait, fifteen? I only read fifteen pages in like two hours? Sweet fuck—_

The sounds of sheets and blankets being ruffled brought George back to reality. He slowly got to his feet, his slender fingers fiddling with the lamp on his bedside table. With a quiet clicking sound, the room was plunged into darkness.

George clambered into bed too, following suit, and was beginning to make himself comfortable when he heard Clay speak.

”George?”

It was probably the first time he’d actually heard his name pass his mouth.

It almost sent him into a state of utter shock, until he remembered himself and swallowed dryly, looking over in Clay’s direction, despite the room being pitch black.

“Yes?” he asked, his voice croaking, making him wince.

There was a short silence that followed, and for a moment George thought he’d perhaps misheard him...

”When did you lose your dad?”

Oh. _Oh_. It caught George by such surprise he nearly toppled off the bed, only catching himself by slamming one foot down on the bed frame. A jolt of pain spread through his leg, but he ignored it, instead staring, agape, at the shadowy bulk he presumed was Clay across the room.

If George’s throat was dry before, it certainly was now. He stammered uncontrollably, “You — what — huh?”

He heard Clay exhale lowly, and mutter something inaudible beneath his breath. “I just, er,” he struggled to speak as boldly as he had before, “Earlier... when you talked about your dad... I just, er, kind of presumed...”

_That’s why he was looking so weirdly at me_ , George realised suddenly.

George cleared his throat once more, and clambered further into bed, tucking himself beneath the blanket. “Well,” he spoke with slight hesitation, “I haven’t necessarily lost my dad.”

He didn’t know why he was opening up like this; before he struggled to tell Sapnap and Bad, and even then he twisted the truth — _so why was he talking now?_

”He left my mum a couple months ago,” George spoke matter-of-factly, trying to hide any deep emotions from showing in his voice. “Packed up his bags and left, not even with a note... just left.”

”Oh,” was all Clay said. He seemed to be taking in George’s words; processing them.

”Yeah,” George said awkwardly.

There was a short silence before Clay spoke, saying something that made George look up right away.

”I lost my dad when I was six,” he said, his voice oddly calm.

George’s breath caught in his throat.

”It’s ok,” Clay chuckled despite the darker topic, probably sensing George’s awkwardness, and knowing he didn’t know what to say. “I’ve kind of moved on from him. I don’t really remember him. I mean, obviously I’ve seen pictures... but I’ve gotten used to not having him around.”

George was now sitting upright, and slowly brought his knees up to his chest, hugging them to his warm torso.

He could hear his heartbeat; he could feel it, pounding away in his chest. They sat in silence, and George was wondering what to say. So many words, phrases, and thoughts came to mind, but he would double back on himself before he found the courage to speak.

Finally he settled on the simple, “I’m sorry about your dad.”

He heard the boy give a little scoff, a humoured one, followed by the shuffling of sheets.

”It’s fine. I have my mom, and that’s all I need,” he said.

Another silence fell on them. George could feel his mind begging to speak; his thoughts were crammed into it, clouding the senses, ensnaring reality.

And suddenly, George felt like he could say anything, like at that moment, Clay would sit and listen to him speak, and not judge him for what he had to say.

Perhaps it was that ever so small feeling of omnipresent comfort, or perhaps it was the lack of sleep contributing to the spontaneity in his brain, but George took a deep breath and began to speak.

”You know, that’s why I came here. To Hawthorne’s,” he said, his fingers gripping the bedsheets that had pooled round his ankles.

Steadily, he spoke, and he knew Clay was listening attentively. “My dad came here when he was my age. I guess... well, when he left, I didn’t know what to think. I’d always been closer with my mum than my dad, but I still missed him.”

He paused, taking in a sharp intake of air that burnt the insides of his mouth like flames licking at skin.

”I realised that I... I really didn’t know much about him,” George’s voice had now reduced down to a whisper.

He hated how pathetic, how meek he sounded. He’d known this boy for less than twenty-four hours and already he was revealing things he’d kept to himself for months.

“So I came here, to Hawthorne’s. I want to know who he is... who he _was_. Mum wasn’t too happy,” he gave a humourless chuckle. “Said I was leaving her too. Said I was... I was just like — like _him_.”

Clay hadn’t spoken yet, or in fact made any movement whilst George was speaking.

For one fearful moment, George thought that perhaps he’d said too much. That perhaps he’d opened his mouth rashly.

But then Clay spoke, his voice the calmest and gentlest George had ever heard.

”She’s not thinking straight,” he spoke, and George closed his eyes gently. “I promise you... she’ll understand why you left soon. I’ll bet you anything she loves you no matter what.”

_How pathetic I sound,_ George cursed under his breath. “Yeah?”

”Yeah. She’s your mom. Of course she loves you,” Clay said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

George chewed the inside of his cheek, pondering over Clay’s words. It would, unfortunately, take far more than a near-stranger’s words of wisdom to make him feel better about it, but he couldn’t deny the boy’s words did mean something. And they did send a small burst of warmth down his spine.

”Thanks,” he muttered awkwardly; he could feel a blush creeping infuriatingly onto his cheeks, and he thanked the darkness for making it blocked from view to Clay.

The boy, however, just let out a small, wheezy chuckle, as light as air. It was as though he had not a worry in the world; as if he hadn’t just had a deep, meaningful conversation with somewhat of a stranger.

”S’alright,” he muttered, and George could hear him shuffling around and getting comfortable. “Good night,” he said, his voice thickly muffled by the material of his pillow.

“Good night,” George said back.

He lay in bed for a while, staring aimlessly at the ceiling, regret building in his stomach.

He always did this — after talking to someone about something important, he always double-guessed himself. _He’d shared too much_ , he winced, screwing his features together in an expression of almost pain.

A small snore from the bed on the other side of the room reminded George that he should probably sleep; the ominous reminder that the school semester began tomorrow, and that day, he’d be ‘the new kid’ all over again.

_He hated this_ , he thought to himself as he buried his head into the pillow.


	3. George ‘New Kid’ Davidson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: swearing

_August 16th_

When George woke that morning, his head was buzzing, his eyes heavy, and his mouth dry and in dire need of water.

Clay was stirring across the room, groggily getting out of bed, muttering a slurred good morning before stumbling into the bathroom. For a minute or two, George lay in his bed, squinting and adjusting to the light streaming in through the window.

It was six o’clock, the time that apparently all alarms would go off in the dorms. The alarm in question was a small black digital clock permanently attached to the wall by the boy’s heads. All of them would go off at the same time for all the students, even if their first class wasn’t until much later.

According to Bad, the school board were ‘suckers for organisation and routines’.

He groaned quietly, lifting his arm so his forearm rested above his closed eyes, blocking the sunlight from reaching them.

Memories from the night before stung fresh in George’s mind, like fresh cuts and scratches, still seeping blood; a dull, throbbing pain spread through his body. He was still unsure whether his decision to ramble to Clay was a good one.

After all, he barely knew the boy. The only things he knew for sure was his lack of paternal figure in his life, and that he liked records. That was a rather limited list.

The door to the bathroom opened, and George heard the footsteps entering the bedroom.

They paused, and then Clay spoke, “I’m afraid you need to get up soon, the teachers come round and check dorms to see if we’re awake. And you don’t want to miss class on your first day.”

He knew Clay was right — it was bad enough being the new kid, but his first impression to teachers being that he hadn’t bothered showing up to class on time didn’t seem too good either.

With a soft groan, George sat up, stretching his limbs and clambering out of bed. His bare feet felt cold against the rugged carpet.

To his relief, Clay didn’t bring up the topic they discussed the night before. He was grateful for this — he was kicking himself just a bit for the lack of secrecy he had.

He’d never been a great liar in the first place, and that combined with his great hoard of secrets he kept bottled up didn’t combine to make someone very reliable when it came to meeting new people. He was hyper-aware that he opened up too quickly to people, and that usually backfired on him. He’d been told before he can be overwhelming.

It was a slow start to the morning, that was for sure. It took George a while to figure out what to wear, but upon checking the weather forecast and seeing the dreadfully high temperatures, he decided on a patterned t-shirt and a pair of shorts, like Clay was wearing.

George very nearly kissed Bad out of pure glee when he saw the boy pop his head through the doorway, two cups of coffee in hand, one for Clay, one for Bad.

”Oh, thank goodness,” he said, giving Bad a grateful smile, taking them both, and hastily leaving one on the windowsill for Clay, who nodded in thanks. “Thank you, Bad.”

”S’alright,” Bad shrugged, taking a sip of his own coffee cup, “Figured on your first day you’d need something to wake you up anyway.”

It turns out Bad was very correct.

George had a headache, and already he seemed to have a list of things to do.

It was so silly to him — he’d come to America to escape the crushing version of reality in Britian, to think things over... but now, as he rushed to his first class of the morning, he realised he’d probably have little time to think here at Hawthorne’s. His schedule was jam-packed.

Luckily, his first class was History, which was situated in the History block; George felt a burst of relief because the History block was one of the buildings on campus Bad and Sapnap actually took him to.

He got to class at what he thought was an early time, but in reality he was barely scraping the verge of toppling into being late, and on time.

He cursed himself quietly. _Talk about a bad first impression._

When George entered the auditorium, the professor was stood at the front, preparing hand-outs and textbook copies. He saw George, however, no matter how hard the boy tried to sneak to a seat without being seen.

_What the.._. George bit his tongue as he watched the professor walk over to him. _Does this man have eyes on the back of his head?_

“Ah, Mr Davidson, is it?” he firmly grasped George’s hand, shaking it quickly, “Welcome. Take a seat, please.”

There were only a few seats remaining. Two of them were, unfortunately directly in front of the desk. It was as if he could hear Sapnap’s teasing, taunting words snaking into his ears... “ _Only nerds and goodie goodies sit at the front...”_ and out of fear of being informed dutifully that he was in fact one of those things — he turned to the last remaining seat in the room.

_Damn you Sapnap, damn you, damn you,_ George thought bitterly to himself. _And damn me, damn me..._ for allowing his thoughts to get the better of him.

It was at the very back of the room, in the far corner, and with a small, suppressed groan — he took the seat, assuming people regularly chose not to sit in said seat due to it being near impossible to see the whiteboard, because of an annoyingly–placed support beam.

But, he supposed this is what he got for not being early to her first class of the semester.

George slipped into the seat, dropping his bag onto the floor and taking out a single pen, the one with a chewed, half–mutilated cap, and a notebook, with an alarmingly low number of usable pages in. _(These were some of the lucky items he brought to America with him.)_

He stole a couple glances at the people around him — in front of him was a... well, a someone, wearing a black hoodie, the hood drawn over their head. They were slumped forwards onto their desk, and George reckoned they were near-asleep.

Beside him was a boy, dressed in thick-looking corduroy trousers despite the weather, which automatically struck George as odd.

He had lots of fluffy brown hair, falling over his forehead so George could see little of his face. He was fiddling with a pair of glasses in one hand, and seemed to be listening to the professor, but looked rather uninterested.

George tore his eyes away from him.

He averted his eyes forwards, but the dull, monotonous voice of the lecturer did nothing to rise him from his sleepy state.

"Now, with the people sitting around you," he vaguely heard the lecturer's words, "Discuss this — using our case study of the Battle of Arras of 1917, how was medicine improved or developed throughout the Great War?"

History teachers, George scoffed lightly under his breath as the class around him erupted into noise, noise of students enthusiastically chatting to their peers.

Slowly, he looked to the boy beside him, but to his dismay, saw he was leaned over in his seat, gripping a black pen so tightly in one hand his knuckles were gradually turning white.

He was scribbling notes onto a sheet of paper, looking very focused.

George didn’t want to disturb him. He leaned back in his seat, feeling slightly defeated as he looked around at the class of chattering students around him. They seemed to know what they were doing; George not so much.

”Alright, class, quieten down now..." the professor (who George didn’t know the name of) began to speak, and the class gradually grew quieter, people turning back to face the front.

”Right,” the man clapped his hands together steadily, his sharp eyes darting round the room for a poor student to call upon. He reminded George of some kind of wild animal, searching the area for weak prey to pounce upon. He was a stern-looking man, tall and looming, with a bushy moustache that hung upon his upper lip. It was speckled with grey.

And suddenly, the man’s dark eyes were upon George, and he stiffened in his seat. _Please don’t pick me, please don’t pick me_ , he begged in his head desperately.

But luckily, the man seemed to take mercy on him, probably out of sympathy for him being ‘the new kid’, and the professor’s eyes fell on the boy beside George.

”Ah, Wilbur,” the man called, leaning back and crossing his arms. The boy, Wibur, looked up from the sheet of paper. He looked calm, his expression displaying no distress. “Can you answer the question to me?”

Almost instantly, Wilbur began to speak, and George realised simultaneously that the boy he’d sat beside was either remarkably clever, or had memorised the contents of a textbook; either way, the British boy found himself being thoroughly impressed.

”The Battle of Arras, as we know, can be identified due to the distinct tactic the British held...”

Wilbur spoke calmly, using his hands to gesture, his voice deep and clear. He didn’t stumble over his words, and held eye contact perpetually with the professor. He went into great detail on the battle, explaining the tunnel system the Brits used, and the advances they made. He included the use of underground hospitals, the casualties, the ‘victory’... as he finished, the professor seemed to be satisfied with his answer, and gave a nod.

”Good,” he said calmly, turning to another student, and began to ask the poor student a different question.

As this student began to answer, this time distinctly not as confident as Wilbur was, fidgeting and trailing off every now and then, George glanced over at the boy beside him again, and was surprised to see a pair of dark brown eyes staring back at him.

”Hi,” he said in a quiet whisper, sending what George hoped was a smile, more than a grimace upon seeing him; but he couldn’t be too certain.

“You’re new, right? The kid from England?”

George felt a small spike of annoyance in him at being called a ‘kid’, but he hid it, instead settling on what he hoped was a kind smile as he leaned over slightly and shook his outstretched hand.

”Yeah,” he whispered back as Wilbur gently shook his hand. “I’m George Davidson, nice to meet you.”

He returned the smile as they released each other’s hands, and nodded at him, “I’m Wilbur. Wilbur Gold. Nice to meet you too.”

“So... I’m known as ‘the kid from England’ am I?” George joked, and Wilbur settled back in his seat, stretching out his lengthy legs in front of him as he smiled, amused.

”I s’pose so,” he said. “Rumours spread pretty quick here.”

_That was the second time he’d heard that_. George made a quick mental note to avoid becoming the centre of attention — he didn’t think he could handle it.

Perhaps he’d just pack his bags up and return back to England, wallowing in self-pity.

”Good to know,” George spoke in a small voice as he squirmed in his seat.

Occasionally through the remainder of the lesson, George swore he could feel eyes on him, but when he looked up from his notes, nobody was looking at him. Every now and then he’d look up at the clock to check the time, but to his confusion, it would always be exactly five minutes since the last time he’d checked it. It boggled his mind, so from that point on, he simply refused to look up at the haunted clock.

History dragged on and on, and by the end of it, George found himself barely paying attention to the professor. He was _bored_ , and it frustrated him.

Back in England he was good, top of his class in some lucky subjects, and History was one of his favourite classes. He could listen to someone talk about it for ages, for years and years, and he’d never ever get bored.

He could listen to the tale of Icarus and his wings over and over, or the adventures of Jason and the Argonauts; George loved hearing about the twisted, dark tales from ancient scripts. He found it fascinating. The mystical thoughts of these stories, these legends of those long-gone, now no more than rotting bones deep within the earth, inked onto tea-stained pages and leather-bound cases — it was sometimes all he could think about. He was called a geek, he was called a nerd, he’d heard all the nicknames — but it hadn’t gotten in the way of his passion for historical knowledge. But now... now that had vanished.

It was like he was sat in a new skin, and new version of himself, one that’s had to adapt to the new version of reality that engulfed him.

He didn’t feel like George anymore — something he noticed since his dad left. It was right towards the end of the school year, unfortunately right by exam time, so his grades dropped drastically, and his fixations turned to home life, and his imagination traveled to the shores of America.

He, George, had got himself in this position. _He_ had been the one to pack his bags and leave, and now _he_ was the one suffering from it.

”George?”

The voice startled him, making him jump in his seat, and all of a sudden he became aware of the movement around him.

He glanced up, bleary-eyed, and saw Wilbur looking down at him through his eyelashes. His expression was contorted into a look of slight concern, and George realised with a start that everyone was packing up, and people were starting to leave the auditorium.

”The bell just rang,” Wilbur said, and George shook himself and began to hastily stuff the few items on his desk into the deep, dark depths of his bag. “I think you’d zoned out.”

George’s throat felt dry. He swallowed thickly, wincing at the lack of dampness in his mouth, and cracked an apologetic smile.

“Yeah,” he laughed humourlessly, getting to his feet, and nudging his chair forwards with his foot.

He had a feeling Wilbur saw through his act of attempted lightheartedness, but he said nothing.

Instead, the two filed out the room in a tense silence, being two of the last people to leave the auditorium.

George kept his head down, and made his way through the crowds of people exiting the History block and out into the thick, humid outside air.

He kept to the shade as he made his way across campus, darting from the shade of one tree to another. But, his attempts at staying cool were in vain, so he tried to take his mind off the heat, and tugged his phone out of his pocket.

_‘One new message from Lucy’_

He could feel his heart sink at the fact it wasn’t his mum texting him, but it was quickly overridden by shame.

_His sister was just as important to him_ , he told himself forcefully. Taking in a deep breath, he pressed a finger onto the screen, and opened the message.

_(4:57am) Hey George, it’s me. Just checking in before I get the bus to school. Are you ok? I know things between us aren’t so great right now, but I don’t want you to feel alone. Despite you being stupidly stubborn and thick-headed, I still love you. So text me back, you dickhead._

He wanted to crack a smile at his sister’s humour, he really did. But he couldn’t find it in himself to do so. (Perhaps that was a good thing, though, because if people saw him grinning like a maniac at his phone, they may have gotten the wrong impression.)

Instead, George stowed his phone away, back into his pocket. He swallowed, wiping one hand across his forehead and down the side of his face.

He grimaced at the sticky precipitation coating his skin, and the blemishes dancing tauntingly across his cheeks, and tracing his hairline.

”English,” George muttered to himself, screwing his eyes shut painfully, taking in a deep breath of hot, sticky air that pinched his sinuses. He exhaled, forcing his mind to focus on his next class. “English lit. You like that, you like that.”

He could feel a student glance oddly at him as he walked past, and realised he’d been talking too loudly for him to present as sane.

So, he instead picked up the pace, and headed to the English classroom he was given on his timetable.

It was a smaller room than his History one, which was a large, echoey auditorium, with rows upon rows of seats stacking up on one another, all facing towards the ‘stage’ area where the professor would stand.

The English classroom he walked into was far more pleasing to the eye, with more traditional-looking rows of desks and chairs, and fewer of them. There were plants and bookshelves blended with earthy tones leaning against the yellow walls, and posters of famous literary ‘heroes’ and their quotes lining the walls also.

George realised this must be a smaller class than his History one, and noted that there were only around fifteen chairs behind the desks. _Not many people must like English, then_.

“Ah, Mr Davidson, I presume?” came a soft, gentle voice from the doorway behind him, and George spun on his heel in surprise, his eyes wide as they fell upon a short lady smiling at him.

She looked relatively young, younger than he’d expected for a teacher anyway, and had mousy-brown hair, cut so that it skimmed her shoulders. Her eyes were large and round, and a hazel brown in colour. Her lips were curled into a kind smile.

George’s first, foolish thoughts were: _this must be real-life Miss Honey_. (Miss Honey, the teacher from _Matilda_ , one of Roald Dahl’s most famed books; it had been one of George’s favourites growing up.)

”Oh, er, yeah,” he fought for words in his mouth as he hastily wiped his sweaty palm against his shorts and shook her hand.

”Very nice to meet you,” the lady’s smile hadn’t left her face. “I understand that you’re new to Hawthorne’s, but I want you to know that you can always come to me for help, or guidance if you need it.”

It took George aback, most certainly, but he tried not to show the combination of surprise and slight suspicion rising in his stomach.

_It must be so hard to maintain_ , George thought to himself as he drew his hand back towards the sanctuary of his own body, _being so disgustingly nice all of the time_.

He noted that the smile had never left the lady’s face, and it was beginning to creep him out.

But nevertheless, George allowed himself to return the smile, and nodded politely, “Thank you, er, Miss...?”

”Miss Brooke,” she tilted her head, as if she were a young puppy.

”Thank you Miss Brooke,” George corrected himself, and started to back away from the woman, hurrying to a seat in the second row of the small room — someone he decidedly settled on; it wasn’t too far back he’d get in her bad books, but not so near the front he’d be labeled a teacher’s pet.

Gradually more students began to enter the classroom, most of them spotting Miss Brooke and sending her a smile and a wave.

It seemed the lady was liked well enough amongst her students, but George wondered whether this could be due to the ‘pushover vibes’ he was getting from her.

But then a student that took George by surprise entered the room — a particular tall, tanned blonde George hadn’t seen since that morning.

He saw George too, his eyes widening a fraction for just a moment before he glanced to the empty seat beside the Brit and slipped into it.

”Hey,” Clay said lightly, but his tone was tinted with clouded shock, “It’s a surprise seeing you here,” he said, a smile hinting at his lips as he leaned over, but then added as an afterthought, “A pleasant surprise, mind you. You take English?”

It seemed like such an innocent question, it really did, but George couldn’t help but feel slight concern nipping tauntingly at the back of his mind.

_Was that rhetorical? Was he upset by the fact George and him were in the same class?_

”Uh,” George swallowed and fiddled with the hem of his top, then settled on as humoured a smile as he could muster, “Yeah, I do. I found English one of the more _tolerable_ classes back in Britain.”

”Tolerable?” he repeated, raising his eyebrows at George.

At first George believed the tone of his voice to be judgmental or such, but he saw the smile creeping on his lips, and allowed himself to relax.

He couldn’t understand why it was so hard for him to relax. He couldn’t figure out why his heart thumped, why his head rolled, why his stomach squirmed. George couldn’t answer his mind’s queries; why he was so _nervous_ in the presence of Clay.

”Yeah,” George laughed shakily, his lips forced into a grin, but one that felt fake upon his face. It felt untruthful, dishonest. _Liar, liar, lair!_

“I quite like English,” Clay said, quieter this time, as he began to dig around in his bag, and retrieve books and pencils.

_It was weird,_ George thought, forcing himself to look forwards as Miss Brooke began to talk conversationally to the students in the first row. _Clay had never struck him as the reading-type_.

And apparently, he must be able to read minds too, because he chuckled quietly.

”People don’t usually think that when they meet me,” Clay seemed amused, but conflicted, as if he didn’t know how to feel about it.

His eyes were sharp as George looked over again, feeling slightly panicked.

”Oh, I didn’t mean to offend you—”

”You didn’t offend me,” Clay chuckled deeply. “I just wonder why?”

_Why?_ George looked him over. He looked at his tall, muscular frame — the typical athlete’s body, he looked at the mischievous grin he wore, like one of a loud, troublesome student. _Why?_ He thought of the realm of stories, the world books create through the inking of words, the alternate realities generated by vivid imagination. _Clay_ did not seem like the type of person to daydream.

”I dunno,” he finally shrugged, trying to appear as unbothered and nonchalant as possible. “You just... don’t seem like a... nerdy English geek.”

This time he laughed; a genuine one that trickled like syrup from the back of his throat, one that spilled past his lips as his shoulders shook slightly.

”A nerdy English geek,” Clay repeated in a murmur as George battled his flushed cheeks. “That my new nickname now?”

But George was saved from answering by Miss Brooke’s throat being cleared, and the class was reduced to a thick silence. George ignored the way Miss Brooke’s gaze continuously flickered over to him as she spoke.

”Welcome back to a new year, and of course, a new semester,” Miss Brooke smiled warmly.

And so the lesson begun.

It seemed to drag on for quite a while, the introductions and the mild chattering. Miss Brooke seemed easily distracted, and the rest of the class seemed to know this and twist it to their advantage.

George was slightly impressed, the way his fellow classmates managed to turn the conversation from one about Charles Dickens to one about one girl’s new pet dog back at home. Photos were passed round; people squealed; George rubbed his temples as Clay smirked.

Yet despite George’s first impression of Miss Brooke, and the slight suspicion in the back of his mind that perhaps the lesson may not be that information-heavy due to the constant change of conversation topic, they managed to get quite a bit done.

George had to borrow a copy of the book they were studying: _The Sign of the Four_ by Arthur Conan Doyle, and found himself secretly amused by the number of notes students who had owned/borrowed the books before him had wrote.

_’Arthur Conan Doyle was a racist asshole. Go die in a hole, Doyle.’_

_’Justice for Tonga!’_

_’Why tf is Mary such a little wuss — come on, you pussy, woman up.’_

By the time the lesson ended, though, it was two in the afternoon, and George’s stomach was growling. And for the first time, he made his way to the cafeteria. Clay didn’t follow.


	4. Weekend Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: swearing, mentions of underage alcohol possession/consumption, absence of father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just rewatched Call Me By Your Name last night, so this chapter’s inspired by a couple scenes in that plot. (Don’t mind me, still crying over that film.)

_August 21st_

(9:35am) _Hey mum. Just checking in again... how are you? Hope you’re well. School’s a bit tiring, but I met some guys, who are really nice. They even bring me food sometimes._

(9:36am) _I think this means we’re best of friends now._

_Read 10:09am._

George glanced down at his phone screen. The blaring sunlight from the skies above made it so it was near impossible to read the texts on the screen, but it didn’t stop him from staring down at the screen, his frustration only heightened upon seeing his own disappointing reflection staring back at him.

It was now just gone one in the afternoon, and his mother had ignored him once more. His phone was clutched in his sweaty palms, his eyes flickering down to the screen every now and then to double-check the absence of replies.

It was foolish, the childish hope he clutched close to his chest.

Slowly, slowly but surely, he could feel the relationship between him and his mother begin to burn. It burned, flames rising high, high up, licking at the fragments of hope tauntingly, before extinguishing and crumbling, plummeting back down.

Every minute that passed, their relationship fell further and further into the abyss of lost hope. And he _knew_ he should give her time, he _knew_ he should be patient with her, but he couldn’t help it.

He still clutched to that naive sense of hope like it was all he had left, like if he let go, he’d be utterly alone.

”George!” came a voice that broke him from his thoughts, and George’s head whipped up to glance at the speaker.

Sapnap looked confused, but his grin held a look of teasing that George had quickly grown accustomed to.

He was laid down, his legs stretched out on the grass beneath him, his body supported by his elbows, propped up on the ground below his shoulders. He narrowed his eyes at George.

” _Hello_?” he drawled dramatically, much like a young child would when they wanted attention. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve just said?”

”Not a word of it,” George said sheepishly, forcing himself to smile.

It was a Saturday, and George was just one of the majority of the student body lounging on the lawns of Hawthorne’s.

He was only one of the hundreds of teenagers and young adults scattered across campus, wallowing in the summer sun and gentle breeze.

Bare backs, freckled shoulders, sun-kissed skin, light-caressed collar bones.

George didn’t blame his fellow schoolmates from wanting to relax — it was only a week into the semester and he could already feel the claws of exhaustion menacingly sneaking closer and closer.

Sapnap’s eyes narrowed even further, until they were mere slits. His mouth curled into a malicious smirk and George felt a spike of concern.

”You’ve been checking your phone a fuck ton,” Sapnap said smoothly, his tone one of feigned innocence. (“Language!” Bad snapped, aiming a kick at Sapnap, which he dodged with irritating ease.) “Who’re you texting?”

His smirk told George he was going somewhere with this — somewhere George didn’t like the sound of.

”I’m not texting anyone,” George said quickly, and he knew it was _too_ quick, because Sapnap’s expression hinted at slight triumph, and he quickly defended himself.

”Well I _was_ ,” he grumbled moodily, as Sapnap’s grin only widened, and Clay and Bad watched in amused silence. “But it’s not what you _think_. I texted my mum, she just hasn’t replied yet.”

The ‘yet’ at the end of his sentence seemed a bit optimistic.

Sapnap’s grin instantly fell as he groaned and Bad chuckled easily. “Aw, man! I thought we were going to get some _gossip_! I thought we were gonna find out that Georgie had a _girlfriend_!”

If George were to have food or water in his mouth, he would’ve choked on it.

”A — a _girlfriend_?” he spluttered. “Sapnap — what the fuck?”

”Language!” Bad intervened, sending George a reprimanding look, but it was lost among the chuckles erupting from Clay and Sapnap. “And Sapnap — you shouldn’t make those kind of assumptions about people—”

”I can’t believe you _don’t_ have a girlfriend,” Sapnap flopped back onto the grass, putting his arms in the crook of his neck so he could lie backwards.

_Girlfriend_. The word felt weird to repeat in his head, like a naughty word, like a cuss word. It reminded him of when he was little, or littler, and a gossiping primary school boy with high expectations and flushed cheeks. He’d had this crush, on a girl called Amelie. He had always admired her from afar; the way she spoke so delicately and stood with such pride. But looking back, he wasn’t sure it it _was_ a crush, or if it was a spark of jealousy. But nevertheless, his friends teased him relentlessly, and in the true way of childish young idiots, they dubbed her his ‘girlfriend’.

Of course, they rarely even spoke, and when they did, Amelie did most the talking. And never, not even once, had George thought of her as his proper _girlfriend_. The idea made his head spin and his limbs stiffen.

”Why...” George stared blankly at Sapnap, swallowing and wincing slightly at the uncomfortable dryness in her throat. “Why... would I have a girlfriend?”

Sapnap didn’t even look bothered. In fact, he hadn’t even looked in George’s direction; his eyes peacefully closed and facing up to the sky.

He shrugged casually. “I dunno... you’re the ‘mysterious, handsome British dude’. Chics dig that shit, don’t they?”

The question was rhetorical, but even if it weren’t, George wouldn’t have answered. His brows were furrowed deep, his cheeks tinted with faint pink, and his lips parted slightly. He could feel confusion clouding his thoughts.

_Mysterious handsome British dude? That’s what people thought of him?_

”Are you for real?” George blinked, and when Sapnap didn’t respond, he aimed a light kick at the boy’s shin to get his attention. “Sapnap! Is that actually what people think of me?” He asked persistently, as the boy yelped, jerking upright.

”Uncalled for,” Sapnap grumbled, rubbing his ankle. (George didn’t have good aim, apparently.)

”I mean,” Bad intervened, using one hand to prop his glasses up on his nose once more, which were slipping down. “People don’t know much ‘bout you. So I guess... yeah.”

”You see?” Sapnap nodded, “If you wanted one, you could totally get a girlfriend.”

George could feel emotions spiking in his stomach, stabbing into his flesh. He didn’t know how to feel.

The words that feel out of his mouth surprised even him, “I don’t _want_ a girlfriend—” he could see eyes widen slightly, assumptions being made, observations were being carried out, and George forced himself to add, “— _now_. I don’t want one now. Just... added stress, y’know? On top of school work and everything.”

In the moment, it wasn’t too bad of an excuse. Looking back, it was weak, but they seemed to buy it.

_They_ meaning Bad and Sapnap.

Clay was doing that stupid thing he did on the week before, when he realised George had ‘dad issues’.

He was watching George, his eyes like fucking x-rays, the way they seemed to peer into the deep depths of his soul. His face was perfectly composed, but George could feel his sharp eyes digging into the side of his skull like daggers. He refused to look at him. Perhaps it was the classic Davidson stubbornness, but more likely it was the vulnerability George knew he’d feel looking into Clay’s eyes.

But, to George’s relief, Clay didn’t say anything about things he noticed, or press further. Instead, he got to his feet.

Bad and Sapnap looked up at him in surprise. George looked straight forward still and didn’t move.

”I’m gonna play,” Clay said, brushing down his shorts and gesturing to the volleyball game taking place on the lawns in front of them. It was a single, long net, with groups of tanned teens on either side, laughing and leaping around. “Wanna join?”

George saw it out the corner of his eye; in one swift movement, Clay took off his green shirt, discarding it where he once sat. George firmly kept his eyes glued to the grass.

”All good,” Bad said, leaning back and smiling.

Sapnao however, with apparent newly-found energy, jumped to his feet with a wicked grin, he too whipping off his shirt.

“Oh, I’m in,” he laughed, and began running off, Clay in hot pursuit, their laughter echoing through the air.

”They’re like children,” George muttered, perhaps louder than he meant to have done, because Bad heard.

He grinned, letting out a little wheeze as he adjusted his legs to get more comfortable. “Yeah well, they’ve known each other for years.”

”Like, in Hawthorne’s?”

”Oh no, no,” Bad shook his head, “Well before that. They met online, actually, when they were like twelve or something.”

”Twelve?” George repeated, surprise scourging through his body. 

”Yeah,” Bad said, his voice light and cheery. “I mean, my mom knew Clay’s mom for years, but I never really got close to him until after we came here.”

George had had no idea they were so close, and had no clue they’d known each other for so long.

It felt like he was now an intruder. _After all, he was the odd one out wasn’t he?_ New kid, not even from America. Kinda short, not athletic like Sapnap or Clay, but not super smart like Bad.

”I know what you’re thinking,” Bad said with a softer voice, as if he had read George’s mind.

The Brit didn’t respond, instead looked forwards, towards the volleyball game, which Bad and Sapnap had joined, and were now jostling and grinning with each other, squabbling over the ball.

George watched as Clay threw his head back, his jawline accented by the sun, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down as his laughter rung through the air. Sapnap had missed the ball and tripped.

“But you know,” Bad continued, looking forwards as well. “It doesn’t matter how long we’ve known you. _I_ think you’re a pretty cool guy.”

George gave a feeble little chuckle, “Pretty cool, huh?”

“Yup,” Bad grinned, popping the ‘p’ with particular enthusiasm. “And I know the other guys think the same too. Clay seems to like having you as a roommate. His last one was, regrettably, highly irritating.”

George’s eyes travelled quickly to Clay. He could only see his back now, tanned and shining in the sun, glistening with the faint traces of sun cream. Freckles were dotted here and there, and there were clearly defined muscles running across his shoulders and biceps.

With certain grace, Clay leaned back, arching his back, extending one arm and throwing the white volleyball high, high up into the air.

It seemed things began to slow before his body swung into action as the ball began to drop back down, and in one neat sweep of the arm, his palm made contact with the ball and it went soaring over the net.

”Well,” George cleared his throat quietly, “I’m glad _I_ won’t be remembered as the irritating roommate.”

”No,” Bad chuckled, “No you won’t. Rather, I reckon Sap’ll give you a nickname, most likely about you being British and most _definitely_ about you being shorter than him.”

He gave George a cheeky grin, one that the boy jokingly rolled his eyes at, as the thwack sound of skin hitting the ball sounded, and George glanced over to see the ball being hit long, landing just over the line signalling the end of the court. Cheers sounded, and Clay was grinning widely.

George watched as he reached out a hand, high-fiving a short blond girl stood next to him. She looked thrilled to return it; it seemed Clay was somewhat of an object of awe.

”He’s good,” George said, slowly bending his legs and pulling them up to his bare chest, resting his elbows on them as he watched the game proceed.

Then, as a second thought he added, “Well, they’re _both_ good...”

George knew Bad didn’t need any specification about who ‘he’ was. It was clear that Clay was, as they called, a natural at the game. Or perhaps it was from practice, but either way, George was impressed.

Well, he knew a very limited amount on the sport (he figured it was more an American sport than a British one) but either way, it was clear to even George that Clay was a good player.

”Mm,” Bad made a noise of agreement as they watched the opposing team serve it over, and Sapnap shoot it right back.

“Sap’s good too — he’s good at _those_ —” Bad paused just in time to witness a return shot from Sapnap, one that soared over the net and shot against the ground instantly, “—those kind of shots.”

”Clay never has the heart to do those powerful ones,” Bad spoke, and George could hear the grin in his voice. “Too much of a softie.”

George watched said ‘softie’ as he patted Sapnap harshly, jeering something at him that made the shorter boy punch him jokingly on the upper arm.

”Except with Sapnap,” Bad gave a small sigh, and in that moment George was reminded painfully of his father. “They’re both rather competitive. Once they get each other all riled up there’s no predicting what they do.”

George gave a small chuckle, observing as Clay brought Sapnap into a headlock.

”I remember one time,” Bad continued, and George looked across at him as a fond little smile crept onto his face. “One time they stole a couple bottles of alcohol from the receptionist’s desk, took it back to the dorm, and got wasted beyond belief. The next day they woke up at midday, and received detentions for four months. All of that because Clay bet Sapnap he would be able to get drunk without getting caught.”

”So... Sapnap lost then?” George asked, brows furrowed.

”Oh no, well, he technically did lose, yes, but the next day he won the money back,” Bad sighed even deeper this time, rolling his eyes. “Said he could get onto the roof of the biology block and down again in five minutes. Clay said he couldn’t — turns out he could. Did it with twenty seconds to spare, too.”

”Bet he didn’t shut up about that one for a while, eh?” George grinned, his imagination running wild, trying to summon the picture in his mind of Sapnap climbing up and down the building.

Bad rolled his eyes once more, but his tone was teasing, “Still hasn’t.”

A burst of laughter sounded, and George looked over, and saw Sapnap jumping up and down, clinging onto Clay’s shoulders like a small child would. Both their faces were expressions of pure joy, the blood rushed to their cheeks from moving around a lot.

”Hey!” Bad suddenly called, making George jump slightly.

The boy had a big grin on his face, his arm waving wildly, looking away from George, and the boy followed his line of sight. Right away he couldn’t tell who Bad was talking to, or waving to, until he called out a set of names.

”Hey! Wilbur! Niki!”

George could feel his eyes widening as his eyes found the tall frame of Wilbur, across the lawn.

He was dressed in shorts, appropriate for the sunny, hot weather, but a long-sleeved, white top that was slightly _less_ appropriate for the weather. His hair was messy and scruffy, but hung in light waves, tumbling down to his ears.

When he turned his head and looked at Bad, and then George, his dark eyes grew wide and his mouth grew into a slightly confused but warm smile.

Beside him stood a girl, one who, in comparison to Wilbur, looked very short. But as the two walked over and Bad pulled George to his feet to greet them, George realised the girl wasn’t actually all that short — Wilbur was just _very_ fucking tall. (Something George hadn’t really comprehended beforehand.)

_Christ, was everyone magically tall at this damn school?_

The girl, who Bad had called Niki, was a very pretty, young-looking girl, with a soft, warm smile on her lips, and a kind gaze.

Her eyes were large, her hair perfectly straight, hanging to just below her shoulders. The front strands were bleached blonde, the rest dark brown — a style quite popular in Britain also. Her eyes were lined by thick black eyeliner, her lips a rose pink.

”Hey, Bad,” Wilbur said as they reached the pair, and stood before them. His voice seemed to hold a hint of surprise at seeing Bad and George together, but he held it off his face, instead sending George a little smile, “And hey George.”

”You know George?” Bad blinked, eyes swivelling to look over at George and then back to Wilbur.

”Yeah, we sit next to each other in History,” Wilbur smiled.

George gave a gentle smile too, looking up at the tall figure of Wilbur, “Yeah. Didn’t realise you were so tall though.”

Wilbur let out a small chuckle, before seemingly realising the girl, Niki, was still stood beside him, and he looked down, gesturing between her and George. “Oh, er,” he said, “Niki, this is George. George this is Niki.”

Niki tilted her head and stuck her hand out in a kind gesture, a gentle smile on her lips. George took her hand, shaking it lightly, and mirrored her smile. She held the eye contact unwaveringly, as George felt his nerves begin to build.

Then, she spoke; when she did, George was surprised to hear the traces of an accent on her tongue. _Was it German? French?_

“Nice to meet you, George,” she smiled, releasing her hand from his.

He liked her voice. George quite liked her accent, the way his name sounded. It was refreshing in comparison to the drawling American accents he’d been surrounded by.

“You too, Niki,” he said, fumbling over his thoughts. “How — how do you guys now each other, then?”

”Wilbur and Niki are in the student voice with me,” Bad said. It surprised George that Hawthorne’s had a student voice, but in no way did it surprise him that Bad was in said group. “I’m the president,” he added with a proud little puff of air. George stifled a grin. _Of course he was_.

“Yup,” Niki grinned, crossing her arms as a hint of teasing filtered her voice, “Bad’s a very _enthusiastic_ president.”

Bad narrowed his eyes at the grinning girl, “I’m sensing some passive-aggression in your voice, _Eco-council captain_.”

”There’s an Eco-council?”

”Yeah,” Bad said, once more looking proud, “I set it up last year.”

George let that sink in, once again biting back his smile, “Yeah? How... how’s that going?”

“Excellent,” Bad said, at the exact moment Niki said: “Awful.”

This time George couldn’t hold in his laughter, and it seemed neither could Wilbur as they both chuckled; Bad was flushing.

”Hey! That’s not true... last year we campaigned to have any detentions handed out to consist of litter-picking around campus,” Bad said defiantly.

”Yes,” Wilbur said slowly, jumping in, “But the problem was that nobody took it seriously, and the only person who actually had the litter-picking detention was your friend, Sapnap.”

George snorted, and even Bad seemed to be biting back a smile at the memory.

The lawns were full of chatter, the faint sound of music coming out of speakers from groups of students in the distance. George couldn’t help but admire their courage — playing loud music for all to hear would not help his borderline social anxiety. There were groups of students of all varieties scattered across campus; as George zoned out from the conversation Bad and Wilbur were having, his eyes traveled across campus.

He spotted a group of smokers, what appeared to be a cloud of thick smoke hanging above them like a raincloud. They were clutching the death sticks between their fingers, taking deep inhales with not much concern over being spotted by other individuals. There was a ring of bikini-clad teen girls, lounging around in the sunshine, stretching their tanned limbs; a few of the older-looking ones fluttering their eyelashes at passing students.

The male alternative of them were a group of teen boys, their shorts pulled so low down George wondered if they had much purpose. They were sat, casually flexing their biceps and sending occasional smirks at their prey — they looked like a pack of predators, seeking for weak-looking animals to pick off, one by one.

”Oh, here, George,” came a voice, and George swung his head back to look at Niki, who was smiling at him. In her outstretched arm was a water bottle.

”Oh, er, thank you,” George said, trying to sound as genuine as he could.

He reached out, taking the water bottle from Niki’s hand, flipping the chilled item in his palm, reading the label.

“It’s eco-friendly,” Niki explained with a soft chuckle, “Bio-degradable material for the water bottle. Drink up—”

Before she could finish speaking, or George could summon up a response, the sound of footsteps and calls interrupted them. George looked round, his eyes slightly wide, and they automatically fell upon the figure of Clay, jogging across the grass towards them, calling out indistinguishable words.

At first George thought perhaps he’d just barrel right into them, but Clay stopped himself, coming to a halt before the group.

And before George knew what was happening, or could process it, he felt a soft hands attach itself to his, and his thoughts faltered. The smooth surface of his palm brushed George’s fingers, his fingers delicately prising the water bottle from George’s now loose grip.

And George could do nothing but watch as the boy eagerly took the cap off the bottle, tilted his head back and took great, long swigs of the clear liquid.

He just stood there, feeling his insides squirm, his face bringing a delicate heat he hadn’t thought was going to be a regular occurrence, but it seemed around these stupidly _cool_ people, coherent thoughts went out the window.

“Thanks,” Clay gasped for air, as if he’d just figured out how to breathe. He’d finished over half the contents of the bottle, now delicately wiping around his mouth with the tips of his fingers.

George so wanted to say: _I never actually said you could drink it._

Instead, however, his mind settled on the pathetic: “Thirsty, then?”

The taller man looked down at him, his expression at first void of emotion, until his lips broke into a great, humoured smile. A hearty chuckle erupted from the back of his throat as George stood there, feeling so awkward it was painful, shifting from one foot to another.

”Yeah, just a tad,” Clay grinned, then handing it back to George hurriedly.

He began to jog backwards, back towards the name, yelling greetings at Niki and Wilbur and waving. But George wasn’t listening. Instead, he was staring down at the slightly crumpled, half-drunk bottle of water in his hands. _That just happened_ , was all George could think.

Clearly Bad took his silence as a sign he was upset, so he patted the shorter boy on the back comfortingly, “It’s alright. Niki has spares.”

But George didn’t know whether he was meant to feel upset or not.

***

_August 22nd_

“How are you today, Miss McCarthy?” George asked gingerly, with a polite smile. His back was arched against the wall behind him, one hand slotted into his pocket. (This was a stance he’d seen Clay doing earlier, and he’d looked ultimately cool. And, who was George but not a follower?) He hoped he looked carefree, a smile curved on his lips as the little lady peered up at him.

”Good, thank you, sweet,” Miss McCarthy smiled up at him through her spectaclles. She reached up one wrinkled hand and pinched George’s cheek, cooing.

Immediately, out of instinct, George made to avoid her hand, but she was remarkably fast, and he felt a sharp pinch on his cheek as she smiled at him.

”Such good manners,” she commented, her voice dripping with sweetness. “Your mother teach you well, then?”

She drew her hand away, assuming a more relaxed position before him. But within seconds, her posture had stiffened, her eyes widening and her eyebrows folding in an unspoken apology.

George realised that even with her old age and slowly diminishing eyesight, Miss McCarthy was no less observant than she would’ve been years before. And only a fool could’ve missed the way George’s smile dropped instantly off his lips at the mention of his mother, and the way his eyes widened in slight surprise, and the parting of his lips.

”Clay, darlin’, you found any records that’ve taken your fancy?”

It was a meek attempt at changing the subject. And George knew Clay had spotted it, but being the wise person he seemed to be, he went along with it as Miss McCarthy hobbled over to the tall boy, placing a hand on Clay’s arm.

”There’s this one... it looks quite good...” Clay shrugged, sending the lady a soft look. (“Billy Joel! Ah, that takes me back.”) “Yeah... perhaps I’ll get this one and listen to it later.”

“Very good choice, lad,” she smiled, then glanced back at George, her expression changing momentarily at what must’ve looked to be a faraway look on his face. But, as George held her gaze, she plastered on a flickering smile and spoke louder, “Don’t you agree, George?”

Two gazes were upon him. _Expectant, knowing, wary_. His mind was too faraway to put much thought into the answer.

”Yeah...” he said, smiling once more. “Yeah, I think I’ve heard of that artist before.”

His voice sounded a bit too bright, perhaps, but Miss McCarthy seemed a tad more settled and calmed by his response, despite how short and thoughtless it was.

She smiled again, nodding firmly, as if his response told her that all was okay. That the storm had passed... “Great, er, Clay, d’you want to pay now?”

_What had his mother taught him?_ George chewed the inside of his cheek. He ran his tongue over the wet skin. It was coarse like sandpaper, evidence of stress and built-up anxiety etched on its walls.

He looked down at his tatty trainers, staring at the laces tied on his shoes. They were sloppily done, but he’d always struggled with doing laces since he was a boy. Even now, when he was nearing the age of official adulthood, he still couldn’t tie them properly.

_It was his father who had taught him_. On the day he’d passed the milestone of no longer wearing shoes with velcro. “A big boy,” his mother had called him, when he got his first pair of trainers with _actual_ laces.

They were black, simple, but good enough for a six-year-old, who’d thought he was the coolest kid in town.

_“Bunny ears, Bunny ears, playing by a tree_ _. Criss-crossed the tree, trying to catch me. Bunny ears, Bunny ears, jumped into the hole, popped out the other side beautiful and bold.”_

His father had recited that, over and over, like clockwork. It had never left his father’s mind, ever since _he_ was apparently a young boy. But George hadn’t gotten used to it, and it took weeks for him to be able to do it properly. _“It takes practice,”_ his mother had said, but George’s father hadn’t practiced with him.

“Thanks, Miss McCarthy,” Clay gave the woman an award-winning smile as the till behind the counter slammed shut, and George glanced up.

His body jerked into movement so quickly, it was like getting whiplash. He was drawn towards the blond like a magnet, crossing the small space of the shop until he hovered beside him, following him out towards the sunlight.

”Have a good day, boys!” the lady called merrily, and they both waved, emerging out into the bright light.

Immediately, George squinted against the sun, bringing a hand up to shade his eyes from the brazen rays shining down on them. Clay did the same, grunting as they were shone down on.

“McCarthy likes you, you know,” Clay said as they crossed the road, weaving past a large car.

George looked up at him, a slight frown on his face. He didn't respond, and Clay spoke again, his voice holding a hint of amusement, "I think she likes your accent."

George let out a small breath, of relief perhaps, and allowed himself to smile, his lips relaxing into a grin.

"Well I can't say I've met a lot of people from Wales in my short time of Florida," George said, looking forwards again.

"No, me neither, and I've lived here my whole life."

A silence fell upon them as they crossed a patch of grass, shaded by a canopy of trees, and one in front of the other, they squeezed through the hole in the fence George had been shown the days before.

As they made their way up the sloped lawns leading back to the main part of campus, George could feel Clay's eyes on him. He waited for the boy to speak, but to his surprise, he didn't. No words came from him, and George glanced away to his right, forcing himself to look at the bushes and foliage they were passing. But still, he could feel Clay's eyes on him.

So, he forced himself to look over at him again.

Their eyes met only momentarily before George looked away again, his jaw clenched, but Clay's gaze didn't waver. _Is he unaware of how creepy this is?_ George thought to himself. _Is he totally oblivious to the fact he's staring?_

George stared relentlessly forward as he walked a bit faster.

"You're doing that _thing_ again."

He had decided upon that line, hoping it would be a subtle enough hint for him to stop staring. Instead, George just heard a wheezy little laugh being emitted from Clay.

"What _thing_?" He asked, all-too-innocently, and George, although he wasn't looking at him, could hear his gaping grin.

"The — the thing were you look at me all weird."

"Oh, so I'm not allowed to _look_ at you anymore?"

Once again, George could hear his grin, and he let out a small chuckle as he spoke, easily keeping up with George, whose pace had quickened in a feeble attempt to avoid answering.

"No — that's not... that's not what I'm saying," he groaned, and Clay laughed harder. "Hey! Quit laughing at me, I'm being dead serious here."

George finally slowed down, and out of instinct, turned his upper body so he was staring at Clay with a look of exaggerated frustration.

The boy was still grinning widely, but he held one hand up, the one hand that wasn't clutching his _Billy Joel_ record, and he too was now facing the other.

"Alright, alright, look at me. I'm one serious guy," his face was comically blank, but his mouth was twitching, clearly strained so he wasn't smiling.

George's face mirrored his, his lips pursed into a frown that he knew looked more comical than anything else. They had stopped moving now completely, and were facing each other.

"You're looking at me like you're a... an x-ray or something," he mumbled, suddenly no longer feeling comical but, on the other hand, embarrassed.

As the words left his mouth, he realised how ridiculous they sounded, and he winced, his face flushing and his eyes desperately leaving Clay's face.

"Like..." Clay sounded slightly confused. "Like an... _x-ray_?"

"Yes!" George was no longer muttering, instead looking down at the ground by his feet and was kicking it, like a child would when they were having a tantrum. "You — you just look at me and..." his voice dropped to just above a whisper, "It's like you know everything about me."

He finished speaking, and felt his heart sinking in his chest when Clay said nothing in response. Gingerly, he shifted slightly on his feet and slowly looked up, his eyes meeting Clay's,

The blond boy was staring at him, not speaking. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were searching George's face, his lips pursed slightly.

George could've sworn his face was on fire, it was so hot and felt so red.

"Alright."

George blinked in surprise and confusion. He felt questions rising on his tongue, ready to be fired, but instead he swallowed them down firmly.

"Alright?" he settled on.

"Alright," Clay nodded, raising his hand again, like an expression of surrendering. George tilted his head as the boy shrugged and smiled, his eyes now full of understanding. "I won't read you, or anything. I'll just... I'll stop looking at you like that."

There was a pause, and George tried his very best to gather back the shards of his sanity, before swallowing, feeling slightly light-headed.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Another pause fell on them.

"But you need to call me Sherlock Holmes."

George blinked, then burst into slightly hesitant laughter.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"Well, Floridian Sherlock Holmes," he grinned, and George looked up at him with a deadpanned expression. Clay laughed, a wheezy laugh that spilled from his mouth. It was a sound so joyous it made George's lips twitch upwards into a smile he tried to turn back down. "Because I read you! Oh c'mon, don't you understand my humour-"

"Your _humour_?"

George began to walk, hiding his grin by turning his head slightly, walking faster and faster towards the dorm room building.

"Yes," Clay was laughing, easily keeping up with George with his long-legged strides. "My elite humour too incomprehensible for the average-sized brain—"

"Oh, you're such a _leo_!" George yelled over his shoulder as he began to jog towards the building in front of them. He could hear Clay's footsteps behind him, but he just laughed, and kept on running.


	5. Cigarettes and Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: smoking (cigarettes).
> 
> Amarillo, the town where Hawthorne’s is set, is completely fictional (to my knowledge) and is from my imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick disclaimer that I do not encourage smoking; it is unhealthy and this following chapter or any further mentions of it should not be taken as romanticism of smoking. 
> 
> Also, as far as I know, no MCYT I watch actually does smoke, and the characters in this story are (key word) just characters, and them smoking is purely rooted in my imagination.
> 
> Do not take the mentions of smoking in this chapter or any other mention in this book as an encouragement to begin smoking. It can lead to severe health issues, and is proven to increase chances of lung cancer.
> 
> At the same time, however, I believe that the reasons for people who have taken up smoking are most likely worse than the habit itself, so if any loved ones or people you know do smoke, please don’t judge them right away for it. Cigarettes (nicotine, more specifically) are addictive.

_August 25th_

“Clay, you interrupt my reading once more, and this book will become a lethal weapon.”

It was mid-afternoon, just after George’s History lesson had ended, and his classes had technically ended for the day — except for an overdue assignment he had to hand in for English.

”But I’m _bored_ ,” the blonde whined from just across the room, and George gave him a deadpanned stare.

The boy’s limbs were draped out over his bed, one leg hanging over the edge, his arms folded behind his head, his torso bended and contorted in a way that looked most uncomfortable. But Clay hadn’t moved in about an hour, so George presumed he was comfy. That, or he was physically _unable_ to move.

”I’m bored too, but I still have this English book review thing to do.”

”Do it tomorrow — let’s go find Bad and Sapnap. Have some fun, y’know?”

”It’s due _today_ , I dont _have_ tomorrow,” George sighed, trying his very hardest to focus on the page in front of him; he had restarted this paragraph three times now, and was still not processing the words.

”And I said earlier — copy _mine_...”

“That goes against my morals,” George said rather haughtily, “‘Sides, I’m not sleep-deprived enough yet to stoop that low.”

”That level of lowness is what got me through my coursework last semester,” Clay said, and although George refused adamantly to allow himself to look up, he could hear the grin in his voice.

He restarted the paragraph for the fourth time.

”Your morals are questionable, then.”

”Let me help you,” Clay said with a soft sigh, and George heard ruffling of sheets and fabric as the boy moved around. George glanced up, watching as Clay hopped down from the bed with remarkable ease, landing in front of George like a cat.

Upon seeing George’s raised eyebrows, Clay shrugged, “It’s not copying; and ‘sides, the quicker you finish this bloody English, the quicker we can _do_ something.”

The boy rolled up his sleeves of his white shirt until they were propped just above his elbows.

George looked down at his book. Furious with himself for getting distracted once again, he restarted the paragraph for the fifth time.

An hour later, George had finally finished reading the book, and had scribbled up a quick book report, with the help of Clay. His handwriting borderline unreadable, but at least Miss Brooke couldn’t reprimand him about not doing the work.

Clay insisted on going with George to Miss Brooke’s classroom to drop the sheet of paper off, but George suspected this kind act was out of pure boredom and the need to stretch his legs.

Since the ‘incident’ on the previous Saturday, George and Clay had gotten far closer.

It wasn’t much of an incident, frankly, but in George’s mind that had a tendency to overthink and catastrophise, he had certainly thought it was a big deal. After all, now Clay had promised not to pull his ‘Sherlock Holmes’ stunt, and George was perfectly content with that.

The awkwardness that was previously evident in their friendship had now simmered down, and what remained was sarcastic quips, jokes, and laughter. It was all George could’ve asked for; when he first came to Hawthorne’s and met Clay, he was hyper-aware that the blonde seemed to only tolerate his presence. Now, George would go as far as to consider him a good friend, like Sapnap and Bad.

“Alright, now that you’ve done your English,” Clay said as the pair retreated from Miss Brooke’s classroom, now paperless, “Can we do _something_ fun?”

”Like what?”

”I dunno... you, er, do you smoke?”

“Do I _smoke_?”

George looked up at the taller boy, not bothering to hide his surprise. Clay looked slightly embarrassed, a light pink painting his cheeks as he scratched the back of his neck with one hand, disrupting the curls gathering there.

”Wait — I didn’t know you smoked,” George said simply, his eyes looking over Clay, making his blush deepen even further. 

“If you don’t like it I can just—”

”No, no,” George said rather hurriedly, “I don’t smoke myself, but I don’t mind at all. In fact...” his mind flashed to the cigarette smoke he used to be so fascinated by as a child. “I quite like the smell of them, anyway.”

It was Clay’s turn to look surprised, “Your mum smoke or something?”

”Nah, my dad did,” George answered. “Not often, mind you, and never knowingly in front of us kids. But I could sometimes smell it on his clothes.”

“Right...” Clay said unsurely, “So, if Sap and I smoked... you wouldn’t be... er, annoyed?”

“No, don’t worry.”

”Cool.”

“Er... now, then?”

”If you don’t mind...”

“Clay, I said it’s fine.”

”Right.”

Minutes later, George found himself back in the dorm room, this time accompanied by Sapnap as well.

The windows to the dorm were thrust open, presumably to try and stop the smell of the cigarettes from lingering, and Clay and Sapnap were sat on the window ledge, Clay with his legs actually hanging out the window, propped onto the sloped tile roof beneath him. Sapnap was bent over the window sill, his face poised with a look of strong determination.

"I didn't think smoking was something people did here," George mused, from his seat on the carpeted floor.

He watched, sat cross-legged, with posture his mother would've seriously told him off for, watching with interest as Sapnap articulately rolled a cigarette.

"It's not," Sapnap said, sounding distracted as he daintily rolled the tobacco up into the wad of paper. "I mean, there are a few older students who do, and a few who sell them — they probably make good business."

”And... you guys smoke a lot?”

”Oh no, no,” Clay said airily, glancing back over his shoulder at George. “Only sometimes. Like a treat.”

”Does Bad know?”

The sheepish grins George got in return answered his question for him.

Sapnap finished rolling up one cigarette, tucking it casually behind one ear, and started on another one. Minutes later, he was done, and had passed a completed cigarette to Clay, who took it gladly between two of his fingers. Sapnap had offered George one, but he’d of course declined, because he knew better than that.

Once the two boys had lit their individual cigarettes with a scrappy-looking yellow lighter from Clay’s sock drawer, they relaxed onto the window sill.

Clay had kept just one leg out the window, the other propped upwards, his back resting against the slightly peeling wall behind him.

_He looked so elegant_ , George thought, slightly amazed at how he managed to make smoking — a filthy habit, George knew — look so graceful. With his freckled, large hands, Clay brought the cigarette up to his lips, clasping it between his teeth as he took a long drag from it. The smoke curled out past his lips, drifting out the open window in wisps and curls of smoke, as he exhaled, his eyelashes fluttering, his eyes closed.

George swallowed thickly, tearing his eyes away from him, as the boy held the cigarette firmly between his lips, and hopped down gracefully, and began to put a vinyl on his record player.

_‘Rebel rebel, you've torn your dress.’_

George could recognise the song Clay had began to play.

He relaxed back, propping his back up against the leg of his bed, folding his arms across his chest, allowing his eyes to flutter closed.

_‘Rebel rebel, your face is a mess.’_

The music from the record player mingled with the noises from outside — it was the mid-afternoon now, and most classes had ended for the day. He could hear the noises of cars from the main city; the babbling of voices as students crossed the campus.

Occasionally he’d hear Clay or Sapnap talk, their voices slightly muffled, but George didn’t open his eyes, or pay much attention to them. He tapped one finger against the fabric of his sock hugging his ankle, to the beat of the music.

_‘Rebel rebel, how could they know?  
Hot tramp, I love you so!’_

_***  
_

_August 26th_

Clay always seemed to be the first to wake, even before the first alarm for the day would ring. George would blearily open his eyes, and the curtains would be drawn, and he’d be able to hear water running in the bathroom, and the light sounds of his roommate singing.

Some would argue it wasn’t the best way to wake up, but George didn’t mind. Clay was quite a good singer.

Some days he’d sing fully, his words clear and loud — occasionally George would even be able to identify the songs. It varied, it seemed, from _ABBA_ , to _Bob Marley_ , to _Taylor Swift_ , even. Other days, he’d just hum, just loud enough for George to hear over the drumming of water against the shower tiles, and that would be the way George would wake in the morning.

He was tugging a navy t-shirt over his head when the door to the bathroom clicked open, and he heard footsteps.

Glancing up, George blinked as his eyes fell upon Clay — a topless Clay, with a white towel wrapped around his waist like a long skirt. He immediately looked away, feeling warmth creeping up the back of his neck. He bit down on his tongue as he pulled on a pair of socks, stumbling slightly.

”What, no round of applause?” Clay said, and George glanced up again, only to whip his eyes back down again.

_He still had no bloody top on_.

“Bravo,” George said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Was that _Nirvana_ today you were singing?”

”Sure was.”

”Cool,” he said, wanting to leave the room as quickly as possible.

He wasn’t sure why it affected him so, his roommate not having a shirt on. It wasn’t anything truly revealing... just his chest, just the muscles lining his stomach... so _why did it make George’s stomach squirm? Why did it bother him so much?_

“I’ve got to run to History,” George said, slipping on his trainers, stomping his foot to get them on right.

He grabbed his bag, slinging it on one shoulder, the sheer weight of it dropping on him nearly making him fall. He whipped out a hand and steadied himself before he did, a blush rising on his cheeks. Clay was grinning, he just knew it.

”I’ll catch you later,” George struggled to say, opening the door, “Bad’ll be here soon, I reckon.”

He summoned up the courage to look Clay in the eye, “And for god’s sake put some clothes on.”

The door shut behind him.

His only lesson of the day was History. This sounded far better in his head than reality; it turns out three hours stuck in an auditorium with fifty or so other sleep-deprived students wasn’t such a good idea.

A plus, George figured, was sitting next to someone he knew, Wilbur, who seemed nice — George was just glad to see another familiar face amongst the ocean of blank faces of total strangers that seeped past.

“G’morning,” Wilbur said with his usual smile as he slipped into a seat beside George.

”Oh, hullo.”

“How’d you sleep?”

George blinked at the question, but answered nevertheless, “Uh, alright, I guess. Why’d you ask?”

Wilbur stared at him, before allowing a sheepish grin to grow on his cheeks.

”My mother raised me to be a polite young gentleman.”

“That you are, Wilbur Gold, that you are.”

The lesson was ever so long, and it didn’t help that throughout the entire lesson, George had to put up with the person sat in front of Wilbur and him snoring. It seemed they’d completely gone out, like a light — if the lecturer noticed it, they didn’t point it out, so George gritted his teeth and kept his head down, in an attempt to avoid being questioned.

Halfway through the lesson, however, he felt a buzz in his pocket, and he blinked in surprise.

_His phone got a notification_. Hurriedly, but trying to do it without gaining too much attention, George wriggled his hand into his pocket, his fingers closing round his phone.

_1 new notification: from Mum_.

It took everything in him to not jump up and down in pure excitement. He then calmed himself, taking in a deep breath, reminding himself to not get his hopes up — she’d most likely still be angry and upset.

With shaky fingers, George tapped the message app on his phone, opening his conversation with ‘Mum’ and his eyes flew anxiously to the new message.

(5:58 am) _Hello. Sorry I haven’t responded recently, I’ve been thinking, and have been busy with work_.

It wasn’t exactly the most promising of messages — not filling George with unspoken optimism like the one his sister sent him, but it was a start.

_It was a start_ , he repeated to himself as he pressed the off button on the side of his phone, hearing the defeated little click.

He pushed the phone back into his pocket, his fingers feeling heavy, his mind not up to formulating a response just quite yet. George’s mind was in a state of frightening calm; but he supposed that also may be the feeling of adrenaline draining from his body.

She had shown no affection in the message, as he’d expected. She’d also used the pitiful work excuse — that, and the slightly ominous ‘I’ve been thinking’. It sounded like a one-liner from a crappy action movie.

George zoned back into the lesson, blinking heavily, trying to focus on the words tumbling out the lecturer’s mouth.

“Your homework will take you some time this week, ‘m afraid, folks,” the man at the front spoke, and a simultaneous groan rang through the class.

”I know, I know,” the man grinned.

”Wait — what homework?” George frowned across at Wilbur.

The boy looked tired, and pushed a pair of glasses further up his nose with one finger as he leaned across towards George.

”Apparently we have some project.”

”Project?”

”Yeah, probably a presentation or something,” Wilbur shrugged.

George didn’t like presentations, not even a little bit. Even since he was a young boy in primary school back in Britain, and he’d have had to do powerpoint presentations in front of his peers, he’d hated them.

He’d mess up, and stutter, and seeing all the expectant faces looking up at him made it so hard to focus.

”You will have a week and a half to make a project in pairs,” the lecturer spoke, “I will then select a few lucky pairs to present their subject — this, of course, must be related to the second world war, but you have no limits in your creativity.”

George supposed he was trying to make this ‘fun’ but in no way did George find the prospect of this to be ‘fun’.

His stomach was sinking, angry jabs of nervousness spiking in his insides.

”You could make a powerpoint, make a poster — a leaflet even. Do whatever you want, just make it interesting enough that you won’t lose the attention of your peers if you are to present.”

One student raised their hand.

”What are our partners, sir?”

”Just pair up with the person sat next to you. If we have an odd number, I can make an odd trio somewhere.”

Slightly shyly, George glanced over at Wilbur, offering him a little smile, that he mirrored in return. _And that was that_ , he guessed. He supposed being partners with Wilbur was a good option — he was clever, and unlike George, could speak loudly and clearly. George just hoped _he_ wouldn’t need to talk that much.

”Alrighty, has everyone got a partner? Yes? Yes—?”

”I don’t, Mister.”

There was one voice that called out, and George glanced forwards in surprise, his eyes falling onto the kid he’d seen earlier — the one who’d snored all the way through the lesson.

They were now hunched upright, but clearly more awake than they had been several minutes before.

”Ah, Tommy...” the lecturer looked around the classroom. “I’ll put you into a three, then, don’t worry, lad. Let’s see...”

The man’s eyes began to switch from face to face; people seemed to be avoiding eye contact. George glanced across and saw Wilbur fiddling with the sleeve on his jumper distractedly.

The lecturer’s eyes clicked with George’s, and he smiled.

_Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck_ , George swallowed.

”Ah yes, Tommy, you can work with Mr Davidson and Mr Gold,” he smiled pleasantly, and George distinctly heard Wilbur groan, as the ‘Tommy’ person whipped round in his seat, surveying his partners with round, excitable eyes.

”Ey, Wilbur!” he called, showing a wide, toothy grin, exposing braces on his teeth that only made him look younger. He grinned mischievously at Wilbur, who banged his head against the desk, muttering to himself.

Then, Wilbur looked up, sighing, “Hello, Tommy.”

Tommy looked dreadfully young. Like, he looked like a sixteen-year-old. His hair was messy and fluffy, his eyes a startling blue.

”Look at us, big man,” the boy grinned, practically bouncing in his seat. “We’re partners again!”

”Again?” George echoed, and Tommy seemed to notice him properly.

”Oh! You’re that British kid, aren’t ya?”

He bristled at the title, gritting his teeth but nevertheless nodding, firmly saying his name in an attempt to get rid of the nickname. “George Davidson, hello.”

”Tommy Smith,” he nodded with a wide grin.

“Do, er, you two know each other well, then?” George asked, tapping one foot against the ground as Wilbur and Tommy exchanged glances.

”Sure do,” Tommy said brightly.

”We’re from the same hometown,” Wilbur said, George noticing he sounded rather gloomy.

Tommy looked undeterred, giving Wilbur a wide smile and offering a little wink.

When the bell rang and the lesson ended, George hung back, allowing the throng of students to power out of the room, chatting and hollering at one another over the sea of heads. Wilbur did the same, and to George’s slight amusement, as did Tommy, bouncing on his heels like a ball of vibrating energy.

”Fancy going to the library?” Wilbur asked George, eyeing Tommy with slight caution. “We can get a head start on this project, if you want?”

George hesitated only slightly, thinking of his mum’s text again. He needed to respond... but also, he had all the time in the world to do that.

”Yeah, sure,” George smiled up at the taller boy as they made to leave.

As they did so, George remembered suddenly Tommy, and he glanced over his shoulder. The blond looked hurt, his expression downtrodden as he glared down at his shoes, his mouth tugged into a frown. George felt a stab of pity ringing in his ears.

”Tommy?” George asked softly, and he looked up. “You, er, you wanna join us?”

His frown disappeared almost instantly.

”Really?”

George nodded shyly.

Tommy’s face broke into a wide grin and he jumped over to George’s side, “Fuck yeah, let’s roll.”

***

Hawthorne’s library was a large room, echoey and surprisingly cool. The floors were giant slabs of great stone, the walls lined with bookshelves that held thousands upon thousands of books, all different sizes and colours. It was a book worm’s dream.

There were circular tables dotted around the room, and Wilbur dragged George and Tommy over to one in the far corner of the room, away from prying eyes and the chatter of students.

One thing George learned about Tommy very quickly was that the boy was ever so loud, and ever so talkative.

There was not a moment of silence around him.

”I never come here,” Tommy mused as he dragged a chair back noisily, so the legs scraped disruptively against the tiled floor. He flopped down on the seat, dropping his backpack with a great _clunk_ onto the table.

“Too calm and peaceful, is it?” Wilbur said, his voice dripping with irritation.

George eyed him slightly warily, noticing the edge in his voice; if Tommy heard it, he ignored it.

”You know it, big man.”

The project itself, as the lecturer warned them, looked as though it may take a while. A week and a half was not, George realised quickly, very generous, and Wilbur, as per usual, was rightly very wise in suggesting they get a ‘head start’ on the project.

If George thought about it, he was almost certain Tommy, Wilbur and him would get chosen to present, given the fact that they were the only trio in the class. This, unfortunately, meant that there were high expectations they had to meet.

Every half an hour or so, the sweet little elderly librarian would bustle over, with soft greetings and innocent curiosity.

People would leave and go the library, but George took little notice of them, trying his hardest to focus on the History books laid open on the table. He’d blink, trying to force his eyes to focus on the text, only for the high-strunk, dark inked words on the pages to swim across his view, floating like they were caught in a hidden breeze, as his mind drifted to thoughts about his mother, the words she sent him ebbing to and fro from his mind like an ever-changing tide. The water was icy-cold, spreading through his body like his blood ran cold, waves of trepidation rising and falling through his mind.

_He was just overthinking,_ George cursed to himself, holding himself back from shaking his head, because that would make him look like an utter maniac.

”Tommy, are you good on doing your own research on the conditions in the Weimar Republic?”

Wilbur’s voice was calming; soothing. George blinked, forcing his mind to travel over to the boy sat across from him, urging his eyes to not betray him, and to follow his thoughts.

”On it, cap,” Tommy grinned, and George could physically see Wilbur have to refrain from rolling his eyes.

“And George, you can do the section on the Spartacist Uprising, can’t you—?”

”Yeah, sure,” George said, mustering up a brief smile and sending it towards Wilbur. “I can get it done by—”

”George!”

For a second, George heard his name being called, but it sounded so distant, so muffled, that he believed briefly he was going crazy. After all, Wilbur and Tommy were looking at him confusedly, but he could’ve _sworn_ he heard—

“George!”

_There it was again_. This time, he saw the two other boys at the table hear it; their heads turning, soft frowns on their faces. Wilbur, in particular, looked over George’s head, his eyes widening slightly. George twisted in his seat, squinting slightly, and nearly starting in his seat upon seeing a familiar face approaching.

Clay halted once he reached their table, his lips twisted, his expression echoing the slight hesitation George felt. He chewed his lip with his insanely green eyes, the eyes that were imprisoned with blades of fresh green grass, the wise shades of evergreen tree needles, and the sourness of fizzing lime.

George’s eyes were brown. Brown, for pete’s sake; so dull and terribly regular. Brown, the literal colour of _shit_ —

“Hey, Clay,” George said finally, forcing his voice to rise from his throat. 

He could see Clay’s eyes floating down to the two people sat behind him, then swept back to George swiftly in one soft flicker of his eyelashes.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Clay said softly, his voice gentle and quiet, as if suddenly hyper-aware he was in a library, and hadn’t just called his name extra-loudly. There were eyes prying into their conversation, and Clay shifted on his feet, sticking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “But, er, the guys and I were going to head into town... perhaps get a coffee or something, and, uh, we wanted you to come — obviously, if you’re busy...”

”I need to get to my next lesson soon anyway,” George heard Wilbur say behind him, and he heard the ruffling of paper.

”Oh yeah, me too,” Tommy said, unnaturally quiet.

”Perfect,” Clay said with a small, pleased-looking smile. 

Minutes later, George was waving goodbye to Wilbur and Tommy, and emerging out into the sunshine, his bag slung over his shoulder, his walk slightly lopsided due to the added weight of two new History books. Clay was walking beside him, and George stuck close to his side so as to not lose him in the crowds of students pouring out of their lessons, and towards the cafeteria for food.

“I didn’t know you were friends with Tommy.”

George glanced at him, “Well, I’m not really; just in a History project with him and Wilbur. He seems... _bubbly_.”

A loud wheeze snuck its way out of Clay’s throat as he passed a group of young-looking students running out the Chemistry block.

“Bubbly’s a good way to describe him.”

“You know him, then?”

” _Everybody_ knows Tommy,” Clay gave him a pointed look. “He’s a good guy, he really is, but he’s, well — he’s loud.”

“Really?” George asked sarcastically with a slight chuckle, “I hadn’t noticed.”

Clay laughed lightly, with no malice, just pure, almost childish laughter, that tickled George’s ears, making him stomach flutter.

_Laughter, what a beautiful sound_.

The number of students was dissipating, the summer sunshine beaming down on the campus, highlighting the classic architecture of a boarding school. George felt like he was on the set of a movie — none of it felt real; him being here, him being surrounded by it all. George wondered if just years ago, his father wandered the halls of Hawthorne’s like he was. He wondered if his father sunbathed on the lawns, or smoked cigarettes in his dorm with his friends.

”You alright?”

George had to stiffen in order to stop himself jumping, and he saw Clay hide a smile.

Clay was looking down at him — _how was he so tall?_ — with an expression of slight concern, his eyes softer than usual. But his posture was straight, his body stiff, his hands pocketed.

”Yeah,” George breathed, nodding firmly. The longer he nodded, the more he believed it. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

***

The town surrounding Hawthorne’s wasn’t what George expected it to look like in the daylight. After he arrived in Florida, he took a taxi to the school, but the streets had been flooded with darkness, the only light supplied by flickering, yellow streetlights, and the hazy light from the moon. Now, as the sun mercilessly beat down, George took in his surroundings — the town of Amarillo, Florida.

It reminded him of London in the summer, if he were being honest, except with less skyscrapers, and less people.

Streets were lined with stores, their glass windows showing posters and objects up for sale, thrust proudly on shelves and podiums. There were few people about, after all it was technically a ‘school day’ so there weren’t many young people in the town.

Amarillo was a large town, though, with houses painted occasionally in bright, jubilant colours. George, of course, couldn’t see all that many colours, but there was dots of different shades of yellows and blues dotted here and there.

”So, where are we going?” George asked no-one in particular as the group of four walked down the sidewalk, dodging occasional splatters of bird dung and old traces of gum. “You mentioned a coffee shop?”

Instantly, he felt the atmosphere change.

Sapnap got this stupid wide grin on his face, his eyes teasing and glinting with unspoken mischief; all directed at Bad, who was blushing furiously, his cheeks pigmented a dark scarlet.

”What? Wait, what’d I miss?”

”Oh, nothing, Georgie,” Sapnap spoke, ever-so-casually, and Bad’s shoulders shot up to his ears; it looked like he was folding in on himself. “Bad, anything to add?”

“Shuddup,” he mumbled, and Sapnap cackled evilly.

George felt so confused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked in their direction. He felt a nudge on his arm, and he looked over at Clay.

”Er, this coffee shop,” he said in a quiet tone as Bad and Sapnap began to bicker. It sounded like even he was having a hard time keeping a straight face, “We... well, Bad has a little harmless crush on one of the baristas.”

George fought down a grin.

”Ah,” he glanced over at Bad, who was glaring at Sapnap, “I see.”

The coffee shop they took him to was a cute little thing, tucked away on the corner of a road leading off the main high street. It was light inside, with plants growing on the shelves, and held the casual hustle and bustle of a coffee shop, machines whirring, voices clamouring, and the scent of coffee bleeding into the air in waves of warmth.

When the group of boys entered, a bell hanging above the doorway tinkled gently, signalling their entrance.

A couple pairs of eyes strayed to them upon allowing a gust of air to blow into the café. Instinctively, George shied away, backing into the body of Sapnap accidentally, who slung an arm round his shoulder warmly.

”Hey — Alyssa!” Clay called across the room, as eyes turned away and George followed his line of sight.

A pretty blonde stood behind the counter, a checkered tea towel slung over her shoulder, a white apron with the café’s logo doodled on the front. She had a warm smile on her face as she waved back, beckoning them over to the counter.

”You should’ve told me you were coming,” Alyssa said, tugging the tea towel off and wiping down a cup that was dripping with water.

”And what, you would’ve dressed up?” Sapnap grinned; George noticing his arm was still draped over his shoulders.

Alyssa gave him a small smirk, then her eyes flickered over to George, a small burst of surprise showing on her face for a fleeting moment.

”Oh, who’s this?”

”New roommate,” Clay said when George didn’t answer right away, his words getting caught on his tongue.

Alyssa blinked, then her lips broke into a sunny smile. But her eyes looked soft and slightly sympathetic — he hadn’t spoken yet — perhaps she thought he was too shy to do so.

”Hey, I’m George,” he said, trying to be as confident as he could.

”Alyssa,” she nodded to him, “Very nice to meet you, George.”

”Yeah, you too.”

The group of four strolled over to a table tucked away in the corner of the café. Bad, George noticed, was blushing furiously, staring persistently down at his ground, like he wanted the floor to swallow him up.

By now, George was craving coffee; craving the bitter taste that would keep his eyes wide and his attention caught. The aroma of the coffee was part of the rhythm of the day, another anchor in routine that soothed him and gave a sense of normality and predictability — the warmth of the whirring machines and bubbly chatter reminded George of England.

There was music softly playing out of speakers above them, the lyrics just about audible over the sound of clashing voices.

”You didn’t even say anything to her!” Clay was exclaiming, nudging Bad as the four sat down at the table, George and Sapnap sat opposite Bad and Clay.

Bad blushed ferociously, “I was — I was trying, okay — leave me alone!”

This earned a small eye roll.

“It’s fine,” Bad said stubbornly, leaning back in his seat and lacing his fingers on his lap, looking rather severe. “It’s just a harmless crush, I have it handled...”

”Well, at least you can admit you have a crush,” Sapnap grinned cockily, and Bad sent him a narrow glare.

“What about _you_ , huh?” he retorted. “Who do _you_ like?”

Still ever so casual, Sapnap flicked his shoulders upwards in a nonchalant shrug, still eyeing Bad with a glint of amusement.

“I don’t like anyone.”

”Oh, c’mon, there has to be _someone_ ,” Clay teased, a grin playing boyishly on his lips.

George marvelled in the way Sapnap didn’t appear at all embarrassed or offended by the statements. If anything, he looked thoughtful, like he’d never truly considered it before. His brows were furrowed, his head tilted.

”I dunno...” he said eventually, with another shrug. “There’s some good-looking girls in my Comp Sci class, I guess. Darcey Mayfield’s pretty. I dunno — don’t think it’s a proper _crush_ though.”

”You’re strange,” Bad said shortly.

” _I’m_ strange?” Sapnap chuckled in disbelief, sitting bolt upright. “You can’t even _talk_ to girls!”

”Can too!”

”Really? Give me an example.”

“Yesterday I spoke to Anna Brown in my Sociology class!” Bad said indignantly, scarlet plumes spreading over the planes of his cheeks, like rich crimson paint seeping into his bloodstream, flooding his skin, arising at Sapnap’s raised eyebrows and taunting smirk.

”Alright, alright, cut it out,” Clay said, but he looked amused.

Bad fell back in his seat; Sapnap was still grinning that shit-eating triumphant grin.

Then came the question George had been dreading.

”What about you, George?”

_Of course Clay had been the one to ask_. He felt three pairs of eyes on him, each of them steadily seeping curiosity into the surrounding air, like a storm cloud, hovering above George. He wanted nothing more than to sink into his chair and not come back up.

The feeling of these prying eyes on him made his skin crawl; their piercing gazes may have sent him into a puddle of embarrassment and despair if it weren’t for the strumming in the back of his mind, like broken guitar strings. The thrumming of encouragement persisted, as he tried to form coherent words; coherent sentences.

_Why did this make him panic so much? Why couldn’t he just brush it off, like Sapnap had?_

What was wrong with him?

He glanced up from the table, accidentally locking eyes with Clay across from him.

George’s eyes wandered, tracing the soft skin of Clay’s face, taking in his grotesquely green eyes, the way his lips were so delicately pink. The way hair fell in soft, dirty waves that collected in soft ringlets above his ears.

George couldn’t find his voice. He could feel ribbons of red suture his cheeks, flushing hot, his stomach heavy with the spinning and twisting — his naive emotions clawing at his insides, pushing the scattered shards of his sanity further and further away. His heart was pounding in his throat, threatening to break out; it was so loud he wondered whether people could hear it, if they could hear what Clay’s gaze did to him.

_Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck_ —

The dark green irises wandered with slight concern, flicking between each of George’s own eyes, but George’s stayed locked in place.

How many romantic songs had George heard, the lines consistent, with, “He takes my breath away”? _Too many to count_. And all of a sudden, in a crashing wave of dark, mind-shattering realisation, that line made so much sense.

George’s body numbed as he approached and he became painfully conscious he had frozen in place. His hands were trembling in his lap, his breathing caught in his throat, as he dragged his eyes away from the man sat opposite.

”No one,” he croaked, his voice bleeding into the surrounding air like pigment.

_Of course they didn’t believe him_.

“Oh _come on_ ,” Sapnap cooed, his voice light and airy, but undeterred and unconvinced. “You can’t tell me you—”

”Hello, boys,” came the sweet, sweet voice of Alyssa, as she gracefully waltzed over, carrying a tray of coffee, placing the cups down lightly on the wooden table.

George could’ve kissed her.

”Ah, thanks, Alyssa,” Clay smiled at her, taking the cup of the murky dark liquid thankfully.

” _Thank you_ ,” Sapnap and Bad chorused, like little kids,

George muttered a quick thanks before excusing himself to go to the washroom. He couldn’t bear the thickness of the air, the heaviness of their gazes upon his skin.

As he walked, he could feel eyes drilling into the back of his head, and didn’t need to look to know they were a pair of ever-so familiar juniper eyes following his every move.

”Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” George repeated to himself, over and over and over, shutting the washroom door behind him.

His body was shaking, his mind fuzzy, buzzing statically, like an old tv set.

“Oh fuck, George,” he whispered.

Slowly, he leaned against the cool, painted walls of the washroom, relishing the sweet relief of the cold surface against his hot, flushed forehead. He stood there, his legs numb and shaking, his heart pounding in his ears.

_I fancy Clay Johnson_ , he thought, the words rolling through his mind like a wave of nausea.

He was absolutely, tremendously fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Rebel Rebel by David Bowie


	6. Hazy Days of Summer Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: smoking, descriptions of sexuality (George is working through things in this chapter, and will be for a while - heads up!)

_August 31st_

Sleepless nights were spent lying in bed, pressing his back into the mattress beneath him, his eyes switching from each faint trace of past graffiti on the ceiling, sheets pooled at his feet, because it was too hot to have them on.

But all the same, George found himself close to collapsing. Every night he’d lie there, his mind would travel to the boy lying just metres away from him.

He’d try not to, he really would.

But every time his eyes fluttered closed, and he tried to allow his mind to travel to the land of dreams, he’d see Clay.

Even when he forced his eyes back open, he’d see him, and his heart would shred and shatter into long, hearty ribbons of frustration, wrapping and winding their way round his body, round his limbs, and he’d feel trapped, weighed down with some superficial force, upon his mattress.

Because he didn’t _want_ to have feelings for Clay. He’d never even _considered_ liking a guy before, but here he was.

He wanted to like a girl. He wanted to be free to answer his friends’ stupid questions about having crushes, without worrying they’d hate him if he told them the truth.

_And Clay... what would Clay think?_

It was the last day of August, after a long, sticky month of heat and start-of-school stress. George could feel tiredness aching in his bones, stress prickling the surface of his pale skin, exhaustion dragging him down and down. He could feel it in the school, too, the initial excitement about the start of a new school year sinking deeper, everyone simmering at the idea of the weekend’s arrival once a week. But the other five days a week, footsteps were heavy and laced with exhaustion.

As George sat upright on his bed, his sheets pooled around his ankles, his eyes focusing on the tiny sliver of the gap in the curtains. Outside, he could see a warm amber glow begin to dawn.

Golden threads of morning sunlight slivered through the gap in the curtain as George’s eyes wandered to the alarm clock on the wall above his bed. He watched, mind blank, as the numbers switched every minute, and the glow of the sunrise grew brighter and brighter, as the sun invited the dreams of the night to enter the day.

And with heavy limbs, he dragged himself out of bed and to the washroom, where he forced himself to shower, bringing the water to a sharp, scalding temperature that made him hiss. Turrets of steam swept upwards like billowing smoke, clouding the air and stinging the insides of his nostrils as he closed his eyes, allowing the pummelling of water against his upper back to calm him, willing for it to whisk him away, somewhere where his thoughts wouldn’t be so damn intrusive.

After his shower he emerged from the glass encasing, water dripping from his hair and running in uncomfortable droplets down his shoulders. As he scrubbed his skin harshly with a towel, he took a quick glance at his phone, swiping across to check his messages, still clinging, neck-deep, to his theory that his mother was _going_ to respond, honestly and truly.

(Two days ago, 9:24am) _Don’t worry about it, mum. Nice to hear from you_.

(Two days ago, 9:29am) _How are you?_

A sharp knocking at the bathroom door is made George jump, and he inhaled sharply.

”George? You good in there?”

Clay’s voice was inked with sleepiness, making it rolling and husky; George could’ve sworn he heard a little yawn.

He fumbled with the edge of his towel, willing his voice to not sound shaky as he replied unevenly, “Yeah! Yeah, I’m good!”

”Alright... when you’re done I need to use the shower!”

”Alright, out in a sec!”

He ignored the thundering of his heart in his chest — _why was it beating so fast? He hadn’t even seen Clay_ — and scrubbed even faster at his skin, as if in his mind’s eye, it would rid his body of the discomfort it felt, and the inappropriate emotions stewing behind the layer of pale skin. The more he scrubbed, his skin turned an irritated red, until he breathed out shakily, glancing quickly at his self in the mirror.

The saccharine scent of the fruity shampoo lying in the shower still bubbled and frothed in his nostrils as he ran a hand over his damp, tousled dark hair. His cheeks were a rosy red, his eyes slightly bloodshot — he looked like a mess of teenage emotions.

And with fumbling hands, a towel wrapped above the hip, George opened the door to the washroom, wincing at the gust of cooler air that rushed at his face.

“Ah, finally,” the other person in the room stood, stretching out his long limbs, listening to every satisfying pinch and click of his joints as he did so. “I thought you drowned yourself in there.”

”Nope,” George gave a meek smile as he shuffled over to his bed, pulling a t-shirt over his head as fast as possible, cursing himself inwardly when it didn’t go quite to plan, and got caught around his head. “‘M afraid you’re still stuck with me.”

His voice was slightly muffled by the fabric of his top, but when he tugged it down past his chin, Clay was rubbing at his eyes sleepily, a soft smile toying at his lips.

_And George couldn’t help but think how pretty he looked in that moment_.

George wanted to slap himself.

“That’s fine with me,” Clay said groggily, as he turned and wandered into the washroom, running a hand through his disheveled locks of blond.

”Why’re you up so early, anyway?” Clay called curiously from within the washroom, as George took the opportunity of his roommate vanishing to tug on some boxers and shorts.

”Just...” George struggled to say something, straining his mind, “Just thinking about... about _stuff_.”

“... _Stuff_ ,” Clay repeated after a slight pause.

”Yeah.”

”Got a lotta stuff on your mind, then?” he asked conversationally.

George hummed, feeling the familiar serpent slither up the back of his spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its path, and the spikes of worry and nervousness along the surface of his skin. He could feel the anxiety settling in his stomach, heavy and prominent, as he hummed affirmatively in response.

“Well I’ll leave you to your thinking for a bit as I have a shower,” Clay called back, and George nearly collapsed in relief at the sound of the washroom door clicking shut behind him.

George’s clothes clung uncomfortably to his damp skin.

His hands felt clammy resting upon his lap as he sat down shakily on the floor beneath the window sill, resting his back against the wall of peeling paint, his head resting against the surface with a soft thump. His eyes fluttered closed, and he breathed out, his breath wavering as it escaped his chapped lips.

Fleetingly, he licked his lips, running his tongue over the uncomfortable dry skin, wincing as he crossed an area he had chewed on the day before, and had drawn blood.

_His mum always told him to stop biting his lips_. _It was bad for him_ , she’d say.

He didn’t have classes until far later that day, after lunch, so if his calculations were correct, George had around seven hours to kill.

Of course, he could just go to sleep; try and get some extra hours of shut-eye to try and energise himself, but he knew it would be highly unlikely that he’d manage to get to sleep in the first place, so he drew that idea to a close. A spark of bubbly laughter outside brought a new idea to mind — going for a stroll, maybe? Tire his legs out, get some exercise in, even bringing in the possibility of having a nap afterwards...

”Clay?” George called as he got to his feet, tugging his pair of shoes on and scruffily doing up the laces.

The sound of running water stopped for a second.

”Yeah?”

“I’m just going... out for a while, alright? I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

”Oh, ok! Have — have fun, whatever you’re doing!”

“Thanks.”

George purposefully avoided saying he was _going for a walk_ , because boy did that sound lame. Instead, he listened as the water started running again, and he grabbed his phone, a pair of headphones, and left the dorm room.

He was very aware that the campus was large anyway, and he was new, so getting lost was a slight concern. So instead, he ventured slightly out of the campus gates, into the outskirts of Amarillo. It was a nice enough town, the houses all nearly identical, with... _was that yellow or green — George couldn’t tell..._ paint upon the walls, neat little patches of grass here and there, well-kept. He could hear the occasional sound of running water from nearby sprinklers, set up on the lawns.

But overall, the town wasn’t as interesting as George had hoped, and when he’d started to feel perspiration exuding on his back, he turned back and headed back to campus.

As he made his way down a long hallway, however, there was a clatter of noise, followed by a chorus of giggling.

George spun, taking out one earbud of his headphones, slightly alarmed and wondering if, in his sleep-deprived state, his mind had been tricking him into hearing things. _That_ certainly wouldn’t be a good sign for his sanity. But, just as he was about to walk on, he heard a burst of euphoric laughter once more, and the fast-approaching sounds of footsteps behind him. He spun, and waited a second, until he saw unexpectedly, a group of people skid round the corner of the corridor.

What was so unexpected about them was their peculiar choice of clothing — it was a group of five or so girls, all around his age, dressed in swimming suits and bikinis, all in bold, vibrant colours, towels draped around their shoulders as they jogged down the corridor.

Instinctively, George dodged out the way, pressing his back against the wall behind him as they made to run past him. They sent him nervous-looking grins that he was too surprised to return, until one of them — one of the taller girls of the group — came to a screeching halt in the hallway.

”George?”

He blinked at her.

”What — oh, Niki?!”

The familiar girl grinned impishly at him, nearly stood at eye level to him.

The group of girls were stood behind Niki, eyeing him with curiosity, and George realised they were all dreadfully wet, like they’d just taken a shower, their hair dripping, leaving a trail of water droplets on the floor.

Seeing him looking at them, Niki looked over her shoulder, and smiled at the group, “Go on without me, guys, I’ll be back in a bit.”

With only a few glances over their shoulders, the girls sped off, their voices echoing down the hallway as George watched them go.

He blinked at Niki.

”We went for a swim,” she said with a wide grin, her voice slightly hoarse, probably from using it so much — but even with this theory in his head, his mind betrayed him, straying elsewhere. _Her smile looked like Clay’s._ He had half a mind to punch himself; _what the hell was wrong with him_ —

“There’s a swim team here at Hawthorne’s,” Niki continued conversationally, seemingly unaware of his inner conflict, “They have this awesome swimming pool, just behind the gym; nobody really goes there, except the team, really. And sometimes the girls and I sneak in for a swim. We nearly got caught today, though. It was a close call.”

She finished this with yet another wide grin, and George stared at her, knowing he was probably coming across as being very rude, but his mind was spinning.

Some of the slight relief he’d felt upon recognising a familiar face had melted away, dripping through his body, like adrenaline draining from his blood stream. He’d been dragged right back into his encasement of protection, the safe walls of silence. Those walls kept him from replying fast enough, from organising the thoughts that were running a million miles per hour through his head.

”That...” he could smell the cloying scent of chlorine, trailing off her body, clinging to every strand of hair, every patch of her tanned skin. _What was he doing? What was he doing?_ “That sounds fun, Niki.”

”Oh, it was,” Niki said softly.

She didn’t look pleased with his response — _after all, who would?_ — and her dark eyes were trailing over his face, switching between his eyes with a sickly sweet look of combined curiosity and concern, in a blend of two deceitfully different feelings.

”...Are you alright, George?”

_That was not a good question. He hated that question_.

He didn’t think about the answer, not because he didn’t need to — in fact, it was something he definitely _did_ need to consider — but because he didn’t want to bear thinking.

”Yeah,” he said, holding his breath, seeing her raise an eyebrow; he let out a small sigh. “I am fine, I just have quite a bit on my mind right now.”

”Ah,” she nodded, her expression suddenly looking very wise as she looked at him knowingly. “I get that.”

There was a short silence, and George properly looked at her.

She was pretty, with her large eyes and rosy-pink lips. Her skin looked perfectly smooth, saturated by the morning glow streaming in from the nearby window. She had _cool_ hair — he’d thought the died strips looked good on her, ever since he first saw her. In his mind, he thought that _she_ was pretty cool. If he were to like a woman, Niki seemed like a pretty good option.

So why didn’t she take his breath away in the way _Clay_ did each day?

Why wasn’t _she_ the one forever on his mind, the one who made his heart race and thunder in his chest until he felt light-headed?

Why was _Clay_ the one who unknowingly managed to do that?

”Do you want to talk about it?” she suggested lightly, lifting the grey towel that was draped round her shoulders, and raised it to her hair, scrubbing at it.

“Not really,” he said simply, and she just nodded with a smile.

_See, George?_ He hissed at himself mentally. _Niki’s perfect_. _She’s kind, she’s sweet, she understands you... but she’s not him_.

“Walk with me?” Niki asked, taking a step away from George, ridding his nostrils of the chlorine that threatened to make his eyes water. (At least, he was blaming it on the chlorine, and not the overwhelming waves of raw emotions surging through his body.) “After all, it’s an American campus, and let’s face it, I don’t want to be walking around alone with the risk of getting kidnapped or sum’n.”

Her bluntness took George by slight surprise, but he just shook his head and smiled, taking a large step so they walked beside each other.

They’d reached the end of the corridor in comfortable silence when George felt a slightly damp arm curl around his, and he looked down, surprise dawning on him, as he saw Niki’s arm linked through his.

”Sorry,” she said with a sheepish sort of smile, shaking her head and looking down, “But my feet are bare, and I’m slightly scared of falling over.”

Her feet were indeed, bare, slapping against the floor beneath them as they walked.

He hummed, not at all minding her arm being linked through his. But he felt no butterflies fluttering in his stomach the way they had when just days before, his roommate had accidentally brushed his wrist when they passed each other. He wasn’t embarrassed, and he wasn’t blushing, unlike the occasions when he’d caught eyes on him, and Clay had been watching him with that intense gaze that made his insides squirm.

”What block is your dorm room in?” George asked her as they emerged out into a large, echoey hall, one he recognised to be near the Dean’s office.

“Block B, near the Geography Courtyard.”

He frowned, confusion rising in his gut, “I, er, I have to admit, I have no clue where that is.”

Niki’s expression turned comical as she let out a loud guffaw of laughter, throwing her head back and bringing a hand to cover her mouth.

”I like you,” she grinned joyously, as George stifled a grin unsuccessfully, “You’re funny.”

He _did_ blush this time from the compliment. Nobody had really called him funny before.

” _And_ ,” she said as an afterthought, “I like your accent.”

”I like yours too,” he said with a smile, “You’re German, aren’t you?”

And immediately, George saw her eyes light up, a jubilant smile blossoming on her cheeks, and she began to speak, her tongue blooming with tales of her childhood in Germany. She talked of sweet stories about her mother, her father, her older brother — who was all the way in France studying for theatre school. Petals of blossom drifted from her mouth, echoing her eyes’ sweet euphoria at talking about her home town, how much she missed her friends back home, and her kitten she got when she was young; until she’d grown a young sapling of tales, branches expanding outwards in the summer sunshine as they wandered round campus.

George felt light as air. He wondered whether this was what smoking cigarettes felt like — if it was, he could understand why people did it. His mind hadn’t wandered to any of the dreaded topics clouding his mind beforehand, simply focusing in on Niki’s voice, latching on to her euphoria and holding on.

He had a sneaking suspicion she was taking a long, long route back to her dorm, still chatting away, a faraway look on her face, but George didn’t mind.

When they eventually reached Block B, and parted ways, Niki unlatched her arm from his, gave him a smile and a wave, and scurried off, towel draping behind her like a cape, looking rather comedic.

And he stood there, like an absolute idiot, fiddling with the wires of his headphones as the adrenaline drained from his blood in a rush. His tiredness came crawling back to him, and he decided to walk back to his dorm before his mind drifted to other things.

***

He was serenaded by the sounds of Queen being played on the record player as he entered the dorm room, the scent of smoke curling through the air, wafting upwards towards the ceiling, tickling the insides of his nostrils.

”Holy — holy smoke... quite literally,” George said as he inhaled a large whiff pf smoke, nearly coughing as he entered, wafting a hand in front of his face.

He heard an all-too familiar cackle, and he looked up, spying Sapnap perched on the edge of his bunk, toying with a cigarette between his fingers.

Clay was spread out across the window sill, inhaling from another cigarette.

”Hey, hey, just because I said I was fine with you two smoking doesn’t mean I want the whole room smelling like a bloody bonfire,” George said in mock indignation as he shook his loosely-tied shoes off his feet.

”Millie Garter in the year above just got a new delivery in,” Clay said monotonously, like that would instantly solve the problem.

Sapnap added, “First come, first serve, and we couldn’t let these bad boys go to waste.”

‘ _I work til I ache my bones_...’

George merely scoffed with a small smile as he made his way to the washroom, running his hands under the tap with deliciously cool water, then splashing it onto his face. It dripped onto his shirt, but he didn’t mind — it was too hot for him to care.

”Where’d you go? You were gone for quite a while,” Clay called from the other room; George could just about hear him over the sound of the music.

“Went for a stroll around campus,” George called back, gently holding a towel against his wet face.

He walked back in the room to see Clay and Sapnap watching him curiously.

”A _stroll?_ ”

”Yeah — oh, and I ran into Niki.”

Clay frowned, blowing some smoke out the open window beside him, trailing out into the air. He leaned forwards a bit, brows furrowed.

”Niki? As in, Wilbur’s friend Niki?”

”Yeah, from Block B.”

“Atta boy, Georgie!” Sapnap cheered with a taunting smirk curling at his lips, as he hopped down from the bunk in a bundle of limbs, clapping George on the back so hard he nearly choked. “Didn’t I tell you — you have a way with the ladies!”

”Oh shut up,” George said with a small roll of the eye, “It’s not like that — we’re just friends, nothing more.”

“Just friends, he says...” Sapnap echoes with a grin.

George opened his mouth to reply back with a snarky comment, but Clay’s voice broke through the air, and his thoughts vanished.

”Well, she’s pretty, isn’t she?”

_Not as pretty as you_.

He could feel slight irritation rising in his gut, the ugly feeling swarming in his flesh like a hive of ferocious bees, buzzing and thriving as he stared at Clay, who didn’t look away. George swallowed thickly, cursing the painfully dry insides of his throat.

”She is pretty,” George said simply, because that was the truth. “But that doesn’t mean I like her that way. She seems nice. If _you_ like her that way, then go for it—”

”I don’t.”

He didn’t quite know what to say now. It seems like Clay didn’t either, his mouth twitching as though he was looking for something to say.

”Well, she’s cool,” George said with (what he hoped was) a tone of finality in his voice, as he slithered from Sapnap’s hand still on his back, and walked over to his bunk, checking the time on his phone, and groaning at the fact he had English in under an hour.

’ _And I start to pray_

_Til the tears run down from my eyes_...’

After minutes of no talking, just listening as Queen played through the record player, George found himself spread out on the floor of the room, sheets surrounding him, two thick, heavy books open on his lap, a notebook in one hand, and a pen tucked behind one ear.

But his mind couldn’t focus on the work he was trying to squeeze in, his History project deadline looming, but his mind unbothered. It was frustrating. The words were right there on the page, but his mind was struggling to read the words, tormenting him as he blinked heavily, as though his eyes were a camera, and would gain a new viewpoint to read from, through a clearer lense. But, to no avail — he glared at the words on the paper, copying some down into his notebook as quick as he could, and hoping the dark, tea-spotted pages of inked text would come of use when his mind cleared.

”See you guys for food later?”

George jolted from his position on the floor, willing for the dull throbbing in his mind to come to an end.

Sapnap was stood by the door, a cigarette (not one that was alight) tucked behind one ear, his headband newly adjusted round his scruffy locks of dark brown. He smiled at the two boys expectantly.

_Don’t leave, don’t leave_ , George willed mentally, realising that would, yet again, leave him alone with Clay, thrust into awkwardness.

”Yeah, see you,” Clay gave him a smile — George could hear it in his voice — and Sapnap grinned back.

”Bring Bad,” George added in a small voice, a weak smile on his lips.

”Yes, sir. See you fellas.”

The sound of the door clicking shut behind them left the room in what was just a slightly awkward silence.

Music continued playing joyously, Clay still sat on the windowsill, what was now only a stump of a cigarette held between his fingers. George bit down on his lip, bringing a hand to his forehead, his fingers threading through the front of his hair, as he forced his eyes to travel down to the papers in front of him.

”George?” his voice was gentle; George slowly looked up, meeting his gaze. “I’m sorry for... for earlier. I shouldn’t have pushed the, uh, the _Niki thing_. Sorry.”

George blinked in slight surprise.

“It’s alright.”

His expression was vacant for a moment before a small smile settled on his handsome features, and he looked back down at the windowsill.

He brought the stump of his cigarette down onto the wooden windowsill, stubbing it out — George knew it’d leave a mark, but Clay didn’t seem to care.

“Do you need any help with that?”

”Huh?”

George’s head turned down to where Clay was gesturing so quickly he felt slightly lightheaded — but he was just pointing to the scattered sheets of texts spread around him. When he glanced back up, he saw Clay already moving elegantly over to him, clearly not waiting for an answer.

”I think I’m fine,” George said ever so quietly, his voice nothing more than a mumble over the music playing airily.

”You think you’re fine? You’ve been staring at this one page for the past twenty minutes or so.”

”I’ve been — I’ve been _thinking_.”

The childish indignation in his voice made him cringe as Clay looked to be biting back a grin, settling on the floor across from him, his legs crossed, his sleeves rolled up to above his elbows.

No longer hiding the grin that curled easily at his lips, he tilted his head ever so slightly, staring at George.

”Oh yeah? Is that so?”

_Fuck_.

_That was attractive_.

“Thinking takes time,” he persisted, but his voice was weak, and betrayed him entirely, as he shifted, his fingers buzzing electrically as he flicked the page of a textbook.

” _Right_ ,” Clay drawled, “So, what’s your task, then?”

George figured Clay wasn’t going to let it go any time soon, so he forced down an eye roll and inhaled sharply.

”Just research. I have a History Project due in a week or so, and I don’t wanna leave it ‘til last minute.”

”Hand me a couple sheets, then.”

”Clay, I said you don’t need to help.”

”George—” George could feel his stubbornness crumbling before his very eyes, his name tumbling past the boy’s lips so easily, “—And _I’m_ saying that I want to help. So pass me a couple sheets, will you?”

George’s gaze was held by Clay, until a blush threatened to bloom on his cheeks, and he dropped it, weakly swallowing. He handed two sheets over to him, the blond taking them graciously, their fingers brushing for just a second; it was enough to send a wildfire of heat through his hand, and George quickly dragged his hand back to his lap, staring down at the sheet of paper once more.

After a few moments of tense silence, Clay’s voice broke through the air.

”I’m ever so glad I didn’t take History — look at all these dates. I’d forget all of them.”

”History was more fun back in England.”

”That’s a _weak_ argument,” Clay pointed out coyly, a dance of amusement on the tip of his tongue. “This sheet’s literally talking about battles that happened in England.”

”Better than _American_ History.”

”I wouldn’t know, I skipped most my History lessons in High School.”

”Sounds ‘bout right—”

George’s voice drowned as a ringing noise came from his back pocket; his heart thudded painfully in his chest as he blinked, then his fingers fumbling with the fabric of his shorts. He tugged his black phone out of the pocket, his heart racing so quickly in his chest he felt slightly faint.

_Incoming call: Mum_

“Oh,” was all he managed to say.

He stared down at the words on his screen, the words that were swimming in and out of his vision so tauntingly, the ringing that made the device vibrate gently in his palm.

”Take the call, you fool,” Clay said, making George jump slightly, and he looked up to meet his gaze.

His green eyes were full of sincerity, a soft encouragement glowing in his irises as he nodded to George’s phone.

He nodded back, scrambling to his feet, accepting the call and pressing it to his ear.

”Mum?”

”...George?”

He nearly cried from relief as his mother’s voice crackled through the phone speaker against his ear.

It was so soft, so comforting, with the melodic symphony of a lullaby against his ear, and just hearing it made him crumble.

He sped out into the corridor outside, not bothering to say anything to Clay, or worry about getting keys to get back in — the only thing infatuated into his mind was _his mother was calling him_.

“Hi, mum.”

”Hello, Georgie.”

The nickname made him screw his eyes shut ferociously, as his legs carried him through the common area and outside the block. Eventually he rested against the wall, hidden by shade.

“Do you, er, have any lessons? I just called you... without warning, really, I’m sorry if I interrupted anything—”

”You didn’t, mum,” George whispered, his voice cracking slightly from the bubbles of emotion floating up his throat, “You’re fine.”

There was a slight pause on the line, and George heard his mother sigh.

”I’m sorry—”

”I’m sorry—”

They’d spoken simultaneously, both of them immediately stopping as their voices clashed, and George could picture his mum now, curled up on the sofa in their living room, her face adorning a small smile, as George heard her chuckle. George bit back a smile.

”I should go first,” his mum said, her voice soft and gentle. He said nothing.

”I’m sorry for ignoring you these past couple weeks. I really, really am, George. And I’m sorry for — for saying those things the day you left.” She paused and inhaled shakily; George could practically see her movements in his mind. “I was upset, and I let out my frustration on you, and that was unfair of me. I still love you dearly, my boy, and as much as I hate the fact you’re gone... I know why you left. It’s ok, my sweet.”

This was his favourite version of his mother. She was honest, her thoughts spilling past her lips; George hated how he struggled to be honest back, but he was working on it.

Her words left him slightly out of breath as he pursed his lips, his body shaking slightly from relief, and an odd wave of undeniable guilt washing over him, drenching him in unwanted feelings.

_My boy_ , she’d called him.

As per usual, Clay had been right.

”And _I’m_ sorry, mum,” he said finally, after a moment of silence; but she hadn’t spoken, like she understood why he was silent. “I left at a really bad time, and I’m sorry. I — I went about it the wrong way.”

“It’s alright, my boy,” she said softly.

There was a peaceful silence that fell over the two — George took a steady breathe in and out, his eyes closed, willing his heart to slow. It’d been beating rather too fast these past couple days. Too much action for his liking.

”How’s school?” she asked after a moment’s silence, and George recollected his thoughts.

”It’s good,” he said lightly, “Different, definitely, but still good. All the American accents are overwhelming, though.”

She let out a soft chuckle.

”Yes, there’s that. I remember... I remember when I met your father—” George nearly dropped the phone, “—he had the dumbest accent. I could tell,” she let out a fond chuckle, “that he was trying to impress me, being all American. _Macho man_ , they called it. But I loved him for him, not his stupid accent.”

George smiled weakly, his eyes drifting upwards to the blanket of blue skies above him.

It was weird hearing her talk about his dad, and in such a fond tone, too. He wasn’t sure if he _liked_ hearing about him, per say, but he supposed she hadn’t had many people to talk about him too, with him gone, and Lucy coping in her own ways. It made him feel awful, the thought of her having to cope with the supposed love of her life running off, all alone, in their house back in London.

So he let her talk. It seemed she was in that sort of mood.

”He would always tell me these stories of his time at college. He was smart, good at the Sciences, apparently. In his second year there, he set fire to part of a Chemistry lab.”

He could hear her laugh, and he echoed it, his tone slightly disbelieving as he asked, “Really? Set _fire_ to one?”

”Yes!” she laughed freely.

The noise of her laughter made him smile, after not hearing it for a couple weeks. _Long_ , ever so long weeks.

”That requires _proper_ skill, that does,” he said with a grin, raising a hand to brush over his already disheveled locks.

“Aye,” she said, a soft hint of her once-abandoned cockney accent returning, rolling through her voice refreshingly.

There was a silence once again on the line, and George wondered if she’d ran out of things to say. Or perhaps she’d realised what she was talking about with such happiness, such fondness, and like George had done so many times, she felt as though she was vulnerable all over again.

So, with a breath of fresh air, George asked about Lucy.

”How is she?”

”Oh, she’s doing...” she hesitated, “Well, she’s doing what you’d expect, really. Lashing out a tad — she misses you, obviously, but I can’t even bring up your pa without her freaking.”

He bit the inside of his cheek.

”Don’t you worry ‘bout her, though, Georgie.”

“It’s hard not to,” he admitted, the voice in his mind sounding painfully strained. “I _do_ worry about her.”

He heard her sigh.

”George, you have to recognise that just because your dad is gone now doesn’t mean that our family’s turned to ruins,” she said, and a spark of childish hurt rose in his gut; such an ugly feeling that made him scowl.

She continued, unaware, “You don’t have to be the ‘man of the household’ just because your pa’s gone. We can cope — we _will_ cope — just fine.”

His voice was childishly grumpy, “Doesn’t sound like _she_ is.”

“She’s got me,” his mum continued, with no malice in her voice, but a slight edge that reminded him very quickly that she was still his mother. “And she’s got a great group of friends — even a _boyfriend_ , I’m pretty sure.”

George’s eyes flew open, wide. A spark of... _protectiveness?_... arose in him as he repeated in slight disbelief.

”A boyfriend?”

”Well, she don’t tell me much,” she said lightly, but he could hear the slight inkling of hurt in her tone. “But I heard her talking to _someone_ on her phone the other night — a significant other, anyway.”

”A significant other,” he repeated dumbly.

”I say good for her,” his mum said brightly, and he could hear her moving around. “So long as he doesn’t break her heart—” George could tell she was about to mention his father, but caught herself with a slight pause in conversation, “—then... then good for her.”

”Yeah,” he said, hesitantly.

_His fourteen-year-old sister had gotten in a relationship before he had_. He suppressed a groan.

_She’d never let this go_.

“Listen, ma,” he said after checking the time on his phone ever so briefly, “I have English in like ten minutes—”

”Oh goodness,” she said, in her classic motherly way, “Go, then! What’re you still talking to me for?”

He scoffed in amusement, suppressing a roll of his eyes.

”Alright, alright,” he smiled, “I’ll talk to you soon, mum.”

”Of course, my boy. Love you.”

”Love you.”

And a beeping rang in his ear. He dragged the device away from his ear, and gazed at the screen, where there was no longer a sign that she’d called him — just his plain black lock screen.

Pushing thoughts away, tucking them back into the folds of his mind, George allowed his legs to carry him back into the block, through the common area, and towards the dorm room.

When he entered, Clay was sat on the floor, knee-deep in sheets of paper, scribbled with notes in dark ink, notes that weren’t there when George left. He was clutching a notepad, pen in hand; when George opened the door, Clay’s head snapped up, perfectly poised with elegance as a small smile blossomed on his lips.

”Hey,” he greeted, as George closed the door behind him.

”Hey.”

”How’d it go?”

Whilst George didn’t want to tell him too much, feeling like it would be a betrayal of his mother’s newly-found trust, George could see the kindness in Clay’s gaze, and he felt like he could be trusted.

”It was nice, y’know,” he said with slight bashfulness, “I dunno, it was nice to hear her voice again.”

Clay nodded, looking relieved he hadn’t upset George by asking, a smile on his face. The smile looked slightly pitiful, which would’ve irritated George if it wasn’t for his eyes spotting the heaps of notes on Clay’s lap.

”Blimey! How much have you _wrote_?” he exclaimed as he crossed to stand beside the crouched boy.

”Enough, I hope,” Clay said, a frown creasing his perfect features, as he glanced down at the writing, now looking unsure of himself. “I mean, I just read through some of the material...”

”No, no! This is... this is _great_ , thank you!” George said in quiet awe as Clay handed him the notepad.

There were pages and _pages_ of notes — albeit, the handwriting was messy and clearly rushed, but nonetheless it was a good chunk of notes — notes that it would’ve taken George hours to write out properly.

When George looked up, ready to thank Clay again, to his surprise, the boy was staring at him, a deep blush coating his cheeks.

”It was nothing,” he mumbled, a new shyness in his voice George had never heard before.

It was weird, seeing the bold, confident boy so flustered, his hand instinctively scratching the nape of his neck, where soft tendrils of dark blond gathered. But George’s eyes found their way scanning his cheeks — flushed with a glowing pink, scattered with light freckles, and a stab of emotion speared his stomach. It was as if his body subconsciously took _pride_ in making him flustered.

Pushing back his silly thoughts, George cleared his throats, fiddling with the notes in his hands once more.

”No, thanks, this’ll really help.”

And with perfect timing, saving George from having to come up with more conversation, an alarm on Clay’s phone buzzed, and _Jeepster_ by _T. Rex_ began playing through the phone, signalling that they needed to go to English.

”C’mon,” George said, gathering his notes and books and stuffing them under his bed, alongside the light dizziness that had overcome him. “Miss Brookes is awaiting us.”

Clay gave a small scoff as he too scrambled to his feet, looking slightly relieved to no longer be in such close proximity to George.

“You’re so dramatic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Somebody to Love by Queen.


	7. Storm at Hawthorne’s

The beginnings of September brought the promise of start-of-year exams. This was something George didn’t encounter back in England — they would have an exam month at the end of the school year, and a couple assessments dotted here and there, but according to Bad (who was very knowledgeable on these sorts of things) this was normal in America.

George had been told by Miss Brooks and his History Professor (who he hadn’t properly met yet, only received emails from) that they didn’t hold unreachable standards for him in the exams this time round.

It seemed like a pitiful excuse to use, really, that he was new, therefore behind everyone else, because of course, the content was entirely new this semester. But George didn’t complain, only nodding and taking in their pitiful smiles with slight resentment.

The rise of these unforeseen exams brought undeniable stress to George, and particularly Bad, who had taken to ambushing George regularly when he spotted him around, clutching flashcards of all sorts, and forcing him to quiz him on family types and influences of Marxism on the family. George had simply no idea what these topics meant, but he begrudgingly quizzed Bad, reminding himself that he was going to have to be a _nice friend_ at these times.

The History project deadline was looming closer and closer, and Wilbur had dragged George to the library after History without fail, every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday.

(Sometimes Wilbur couldn’t get to George quick enough, and Tommy would tag along too.)

George was quietly very relieved to have Wilbur as one of his partners on the project, because boy could he study. He’d find himself transfixed by the way Wilbur spoke so fluidly and without messing anything up, or wrote with such efficiency and speed across the lined paper of his notebook. Also, Tommy was a smart kid, no matter how much Wilbur apparently disliked to admit, and he got remarkably high results on last year’s finals, something George found out after spotting it scribbled on the inside of the boy’s planner.

But the blond didn’t flaunt these high scores like George perhaps would have, instead hurriedly trying to cover them when George’s eyes flickered in their direction.

If they had the chance, afternoons or early mornings would be spent down at Alyssa’s coffee shop in the centre of town, or at McCarthy’s, rifling through vinyls.

But besides the extensive studying Bad coerced George, Clay and Sapnap into doing late into the evening, the welcome of September brought storms.

In England, ‘storms’ were typically just a lot of rain and wind, with occasional thunder that would scare the life out of the family cat, Pluto. However in Florida, the storms were far different — and worse, by a high degree.

Storms brought intense heatwaves the days before they hit; when they did, rain would pelt against the windows so rapidly George was afraid the glass would shatter. Winds would howl all night long, and George heard that a house not too far away had a tree uprooted in the garden and fall onto its roof. The gloominess of nighttime would bring rolls of thunder and cracks of lightning that would light up the sky. On one particularly bad night, the electricity failed in several parts of the schools, and some lessons were cancelled temporarily.

One thing George was sure of — he did not like Florida storms.

***

_September 5th_

”Sapnap, I’m trying to study, if you want to play your stupid music go do it somewhere else!”

“What’s wrong with _Coldplay_?!”

“I am trying to study, I don’t need to hear Chris Martin singing in my ear!”

”I’m playing it on the other side of the room—”

”Yet I can still hear it!”

“Then wear fucking headphones!”

”Language, and no! I’m _studying_!”

”Go study somewhere else, this is my room just as much as it is yours!”

”Just because you hate studying—”

”Oh shove off, you prick—”

”SAPNAP! I’M TRYING TO STUDY!”

”FINE — I’LL LEAVE THEN!”

George groaned into his hands, his fingers massaging his temples in a bad attempt at soothing his incoming headache, as the bellowing from the room across from theirs stopped, followed by the slamming of a door that sent vibrations through the floor.

Sat on his bed across from him, Clay looked worried, gnawing on his lip, his eyes on the door, like he could see through the walls and to the dorm opposite. Worry clouded his expression, and George could see why; the two boys had been bickering almost non-stop since the start of September, since the announcement of exams.

Clay could probably feel George’s eyes on him, and he glanced over, meeting his gaze.

”Don’t worry,” Clay said in his usual comforting manner.

George didn’t want to point out it seemed like _Clay_ was the one who needed that advice, not him.

”They’re just being right old... old moody buggers.”

In any other situation, George would’ve chuckled at the old British slang he had clearly picked up from George’s use of it, but he recognised now was probably not the time.

He kept looking at Clay, wondering whether asking if there was a particular reason they were being ‘moody buggers’ was crossing a line or not. But, he needn’t have worried, because Clay hesitantly began speaking anyway.

”They... _clash_ sometimes,” he said, his expression perfectly poised, as though betraying too much emotion would give information away. “They just have very different personalities, meaning they have different goals; different priorities.”

George could see that quite clearly.

”Bad prioritises his studies... y’know, doing well in school, earning good degrees so he can live a good life with a job he enjoys. Sapnap, however... doesn’t think far into the future like Bad does. He prefers to think of the present; he prioritises having _fun_ over anything else.”

”...And his having fun gets in the way of Bad’s studying,” George finished, a miserable feeling welling in his gut.

Clay nodded, his eyes returning to look at the door, towards the dorm, where all was now quiet. Not necessarily _peaceful_ ; after the raucous yelling, there was still tension settling in the air, like the steady hum of electricity.

The drumming of rain on the window panes hadn’t stopped, ever perpetuated by the howling winds outside.

It was fitting, really — stormy weather seemed to fit the feeling humming in the air, flushes of red hot frustration pigmenting the air, hovering around the doorway like a bad omen, or a curse.

”Where d’you think Sap’s gone, then?” George asked, and Clay sighed.

”My guess is probably Karl’s dorm,” he said softly, his voice muffled slightly by the hand that was now providing a perch for his chin. His fingers tapped impatiently against his jawline.

”Who’s Karl?”

”Karl Jacobs,” he said simply, like that would fix George’s confusion.

“Who?”

“He’s this guy Sapnap got to know from his Chem class or something, I dunno... He seems like a nice enough guy, I don’t really know him, though.”

”Huh.”

There was a pregnant pause, and Clay’s pale eyes flickered over to him.

He looked like he was about to say something, then caught himself. Then he frowned; George could practically hear the cogs in his head whirring as he thought long and hard about what he was about to say.

”They had a _thing_ last summer.”

George blinked. _A thing?_ That held several meanings...

”A thing?”

Clay gave him a deadpanned look, one that clearly read _are you serious?_

“Like a summer fling... but not. Because they’re still friends and all that — I dunno, what’s the definition of a summer fling?”

They were approaching awkward territory now, George could feel it, hanging like a rain cloud in the air, dark and dismal. Almost like the rain clouds outside.

”It doesn’t matter,” Clay muttered. “But yeah... summer fling... _thing_.”

”Oh,” George couldn’t help but feel surprised.

In no way was he judging Sapnap (or Karl, for that matter, whoever he was) for it, but it just hadn’t _clicked_ in his mind that Sapnap was... well, it wasn’t George’s business. It made a creeping feeling of guilt run up his spine as he thought of this — for _he_ was making assumptions, wasn’t he? Assumptions he himself had been under scrutiny under many times before...

Unfortunately, George’s silence and faraway look were evidently taken the wrong way, and before he knew it, George was under the receiving end of a cool, hardened gaze.

”Do you have a problem with it?”

George’s mouth fell open.

”Oh fuck off,” was his first thought, the words spilling past his lips before he could stop them, because _boy was this ironic_. “Who d’you take me for? The last thing I am is homophobic.”

He hoped his rather brash words didn’t reveal any hidden meanings he hadn’t thought to cover.

But the sheepish look on Clay’s face and the glint of amusement in his eyes told George he was probably alright.

”Good, good,” he said calmly, “I was just checking, that’s all.”

George refrained from laughing, “Just surprised, I guess,” he shifted slightly, “And I have no bloody idea who Karl Jacobs is.”

Clay snorted in amusement.

”Just... I don’t think I was supposed to tell you that, um, so don’t tell anyone,” he said, looking at George with a raised, expectant eyebrow.

”I heard nothing.”

The blond gave a smile.

Clay then began to crawl off his bed, looking suddenly rather solemn and serious as he tugged a hoodie on over his long-sleeved tee. His eyes flickered over to the raging storm outside, now only intensified by the threats of darkness looming over them; evening was approaching.

”I’m gonna go look for him,” Clay said rather gruffly, “The stupid idiot’s hotheaded, I don’t want him running off and doing something dumb.”

”Aww,” George cooed teasingly, “You _are_ a softie.”

He could’ve sworn he saw a faint blush taint Clay’s cheeks before he turned away, scoffing, as George chuckled.

”Up yours,” he said, as he made his way to the door, “Alright, I’ll be back soon-ish, see you.”

”See you,” George called as Clay left, the door shutting behind him.

Immediately, like magic as the door closed and the presence of Clay was no longer a comfort, the thrumming of thoughts in his mind became too much, and he dropped his head onto his pillow, closing his eyes. _That was a lot to unpack_.

There seemed to be quite a bit to unpack at the moment — from his mother calling him unsuspectingly, out of the blue, to trying to squash down any feelings of any kind other than platonic that he felt for his roommate... _this_ was just another.

When Clay returned under half an hour later, this time with Sapnap by his side, nothing was spoken about that was out of the ordinary.

They drifted over to the record player, this time going steady with the classics from Billy Joel. Sapnap spread out like a snow angel on the floor, a pillow donated by George beneath his head. Clay lounged with his back against the wall, opposite Sapnap. George stayed in his bed, curled up with his knees pressed up against his chest, as Sapnap and Clay began to talk; just a gentle chatter that flowed so easily between them.

At around seven o’clock Bad crept into the room, wringing his hands, brow furrowed, lips releasing apologies before trapped by his own indignation. And minutes later, all seemed to be forgiven, and things were back to normal between the four of them.

It seemed to go like that quite frequently. Bad and Sapnap would bicker, usually over matters that were so inconsequential it was useless to discuss.

Then Clay, the knight in shining armour, would calm them down, they would talk it out like best friends do, and all would be well again.

It seemed so simple when put into few words, but it did make George wonder every time how Clay managed with such ease.

He made it look so easy, being him.

***

_September 6th_

Mid-afternoon brought an influx of homework, and extra-curricula tasks George had to do.

He had finished his lessons for the day, now revelling in the supposed freedom of his free periods. ‘Freedom’ in simple terms meant him sitting cross-legged in his room, shifting through paperwork and organising his work to the best of his abilities. He was no Bad, but he was trying his hardest to keep notes and things organised; perhaps the trepidation of upcoming exams was getting to his head.

Clay had classes that afternoon, Bad had an extra-curricular of some sort, and Sapnap was snoozing peacefully in the room across. George daren’t wake him, out of fear of being bitten or something along those lines.

So, it most definitely startled him when a knock sounded at his door.

It surprised him even further when, brow furrowed, hair hand-ravaged, he opened the door to see Niki stood in the hallway, a bright smile on her face.

“Hey!” she grinned, as he blinked at her, summoning up a grin in return. “I’m sorry if I’m intruding, but d’you mind if I come in?”

”What — I mean, yeah, of course.”

He stood aside and with a smile of gratitude, she slipped in; George checked the corridor anxiously, wondering if he was violating any school rules by doing this. He shut the door and spun on his heel.

“What’s up?” he asked curiously, as she stood, looking unnaturally awkward as she scanned the floor.

He jolted, “Oh sorry, the floor’s a bit of a mess — just some papers...”

He swept some of the papers to the side and she gratefully took a seat on the floor, her back resting against Clay’s bed frame.

”Sorry, I feel like I’m intruding...”

“Not at all,” he assured her, “Just some dull schoolwork. ‘Sides, I will take any opportunity to not do it.” She grinned. “So what’s up?”

“Oh just my roommate, Hannah,” she sighed, untangling a small bag from across her body, and dropping it onto the floor beside her. She ran a hand through her slightly scruffy hair, stretching her legs out in front of her, but not so they were in the way of George.

”What’s she done?”

George rifled through some sheets of paper, eyes skimming the paragraphs, as Niki sighed.

”Just... she’s got a _boyfriend_ now,” Niki said, and George’s head flew up.

Why is everybody romantically involved these days? From Sapnap... to Lucy... even himself was feeling slightly guilty.

“Oh yeah? You don’t like him?”

”Not that, he seems like a lovely guy,” she said, tilting her head back and closing her eyes, looking perfectly prepared to drift off to sleep. “But I don’t see her enough anymore. Or at least that’s what I think — she thinks I’m going crazy.”

”Ah,” George hummed, feeling oddly knowledgeable as he returned to his schoolwork, “So she wasn’t happy when you told her, then?”

”Far from it.”

”Sounds like she’s probably just excited about being in a relationship—”

His attempt at reasoning didn’t go so well as she interrupted, “—They’ve been on and off for _six months_ now.”

”Oh.”

”I’m sorry,” Niki sighed, crossing her arms over her chest; George noticed she looked ever so tired as her gaze turned to look out the window, at the relentless rain. “You probably don’t wanna hear this...”

”Niki, it’s fine,” he sent her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Frankly, the relationship gossip was not a topic he was particularly interested in, nor in desperate need to hear about. He really _didn’t_ need to hear about it, with everything else going on.

However, he had to persistently remind himself that whilst he may not be crazy about this kind of stuff, he was also going to be a good friend.

”You can talk to me about whatever you want, I don’t mind,” he finished.

”You’re a good guy.”

”Thank you.”

The conversation drifted back to Hannah — whoever she was — but George was content to nod along at the right times, add comments when he felt needed, and get on with work.

He wasn’t sure if this would become a regular thing, Niki coming to talk to him about her troubles. But he didn’t mind too much — he was still savouring the pride he felt being able to make friends with people here. The doubts he held when he first came to Hawthorne’s about spending his remaining school years utterly alone had drifted away, now naive and childish to look back on.

”I mean, I just want her to be happy, but she can’t just _ignore_ us all.”

“Sure.”

”Don’t you agree? Nate’s a lovely guy, but he’s so... it’s like they’re joined at the hip. I talked to Will about it, he agrees with me, he thinks it’s a bit shitty of them both to do.”

”No, I agree with you both.”

”Should I talk to her about it again, d’you think?”

”If you want.”

”I don’t want to upset her more than I already have... I mean, we’re roommates, if I fuck this up and we have to see each other _everyday_...”

 _That hit a little too close to home_.

“Go for it,” he said, refusing to take his own advice. “She should be able to listen and talk to you about things like this.”

“Alright... I think I will.”

And that was that. George felt like some really wise, old soul that day, like Dumbledore or Gandalf; some ancient, omniscient wizard. He himself had a shocking amount of things he had to work through, but it sparked a small flame of comfort in his chest, with perhaps a glint of pride, that he was the one people were coming to when they had a concern, or query.

To be fair, the list (if it even counted as one) only consisted of Niki and (sort of) Clay, but he figured it would expand at some point.

And the day continued on, Niki leaving with a flare of spontaneous determination to talk about her troubles, George still groggily powering on with schoolwork.

”I only think we need to do a tiny bit more writing,” Wilbur mused later that day as George presented him with the paragraphs he’d made for the History project. “I’ll stick ‘em down onto a large piece of paper, get Niki to do a fancy font for the title. She’s good at those.”

”And Tommy’s notes?” George asked as he dug around in his bag for the book he’d borrowed from Wilbur.

When he glanced back up, confused at the silence, Wilbur was looking at him slightly pleadingly.

”What?”

”Would it be too much to ask for you to get them?”

George sighed. “Wilbur, what is it with you and Tommy?”

Wilbur’s expression darkened, as he folded the sheets of slightly crumpled paper into exact quarters with slightly scary precision.

”I have known that boy nearly my whole life,” he said gloomily. “And I tell you, he is the most reckless, hazardous person I’ve ever met in my nineteen years on this Earth. We just don’t get along.”

”He seems to like you,” George reasoned quietly, thinking of all the times he’d seen Tommy subtly try to impress Wilbur, like a younger brother trying to make an older brother proud.

“We’re like... like polar opposites,” he said firmly, ignoring George. “Like chalk and cheese. We don’t get along.”

George didn’t press the subject any further, seeing a look in Wilbur’s eye. It wasn’t much of an answer he was given, and he figured there was more to it, lying deep beneath murky waters, but he allowed those waters to boil and bubble, and accepted Wilbur’s offer; he sought out Tommy later that day, found his work, and gave it to Wilbur.

It was late in the evening when Clay and Bad returned to the dorm, arms laden with food from the local take away spot in town.

”This is the good shit,” Sapnap said through a full mouth of chick-fil-a, nudging George beside him, and ignoring Bad’s squawk of indignation at his crude language.

”Isn’t chick-fil-a homophobic?” Clay mused after a short silence, looking thoughtful.

Sapnap shrugged.

”How can a _company_ be homophobic?” George asked with genuine confusion, frowning across at the three other boys.

Clay and Sapnap broke out into simultaneous, raucous snickering.

“Cancel George, cancel George!” They chorused with wide grins.

George chuckled with an eye roll, “Who are you even _talking_ to? And seriously, how can a whole company be homophobic?”

”I dunno,” Clay shrugged after calming down from laughing.

“But this sauce I could _die_ for,” Sapnap moaned exaggeratedly as he took a vigorous bite of something from his bowl. “Whether they made it with a seasoning of homophobia or not—” George snorted grotesquely; Clay chuckled, probably at him, “—it still tastes bomb.”

”Tastes _bomb_?” Bad repeated mockingly, with a smile tugging at his lips, “That’s the vocabulary of a middle-schooler? What _are_ you, twelve?”

”Yes,” he said, his voice muffled die to his mouth still chewing at his chick-fil-a. “Trapped in a nineteen-year-old’s body.”

George grinned. “I can believe that.”

The topic of conversation drifted to the apparent upcoming football game Clay and Sapnap had plans on watching. Where George had no clue, since there were few technological devices at Hawthorne’s, and little to zero would have the capability to stream a football game.

It was, however, like listening to people talking in a foreign language. It strongly reminded George of his French lessons in secondary school back in England.

Oh, how he’d despised them so; he couldn’t speak French for shit, and it didn’t help his teacher seemed to hold a particular grudge against him.

Clay and Sapnap had begun to speak in fluent _football talk_ , even going so far as to abandon their boxes of food so they could use their hands to exaggerate their point. Eventually George just stopped trying to listen, but he was positive at one point Clay had drawn diagrams on a scrap piece of paper nearby. Honestly, it was like a life or death situation — Clay’s eyes were blazing with amusing determination, as he and Sapnap argued dramatically over the upcoming game.

”Oh, come on now, there’s no way! Oklahoma has this one, easy—”

”What are you _talking_ about? Houston obliterated them last time!”

”Oklahoma just had a bad season, did you see the game they played those couple weeks ago?”

”Yeah but that was against _Dallas_ — they suck ass...”

Bad was watching in quiet amusement, and George figured he’d probably had to put up with this for some time now. But, he also seemed to vaguely understand their American-talk.

Not knowing about American football was one thing, but even when it came to British football, George knew squat.

”You don’t understand a _word_ of this, do you?” Sapnap asked George amusedly, as the debate drifted to a close.

”Not a bloody thing.”

” _Not a bloody thing_ ,” Sapnap echoed him mockingly, in a horrific attempt at a English accent. “Lord, I forget you’re not American sometimes.”

Clay added, mischievously, ”I forget you don’t know shit—” (“Language!”) “—about American football.”

George felt a spark of indignation rise as he narrowed his eyes challengingly at the boy sat across from him, who was smirking dangerously right back at him.

”Yeah well, how much do you know about _British_ football?”

“Probably more than you do, George.”

George just rolled his eyes with an amused scoff, settling back so he rested against the wall behind him, a lazy grin emerging on his face. Silently, he admitted defeat — Clay probably did know more than George did in terms of football, of all kinds really. Wasn’t that pitiful?

“Alright, sugarplum, don’t get all high and mighty now,” George said, settling on a cocky smirk that made Clay raise an eyebrow. He ignored the urge he felt to squirm beneath his gaze.

” _High and mighty?_ Oh, sweetheart, when was the last time you played a sport?”

Sweetheart.

The word rolled past his lips so smoothly, with such ease, and George couldn’t deny this was perhaps the one time stupid Clay’s stupid American accent sounded good.

“Don’t pick on those who prefer inactive activities,” George sniffed, in an excellent impression of his pish-posh grandmother. “We’re the sensible ones, _darlin_ ’.”

Clay smiled, and ducked his head, looking back down at his food.

”Alright, so from this conversation...” Sapnap called, bringing an end to the snarky comment war between Clay and George, “...we have learned that: one) Clay’s a cocky bastard, and two) George doesn’t go outside.”

“Like, ever.” George laughed as he slurped from a can of ‘soda’ as the Floridians called it.

The conversation yet again drifted, Bad taking the lead, predictably, talking about school itself, which earned a simultaneous groan. Whilst George kept his eyes firmly trained on Bad, he could feel Clay’s eyes hovering over in his direction every now and then.

When the evening came to an end and Bad and Sapnap had to return to their dorm room, George dragged himself to the bathroom, hopping into the shower. He hadn’t had his regular morning shower, and he felt dirty. He let the piping hot water trickle down his body, trace his skin, as he stood there for a few minutes, unmoving, allowing the water to pummel against his upper back relentlessly.

One word kept replaying over and over in his head, like a faulty cassette tape, whirring and humming.

 _Sweetheart_. What a lovely word.

George hadn’t thought it was such a lovely word until Clay said it.

It was _these_ kind of thoughts that made George want to grab onto his hair and pull, until those thoughts went away. Because they were foolish and stupid... but no matter how many times he told himself that, his mind betrayed him, and the fluttering in his stomach returned.

Frustratedly, he threw his palm against the wall, not enough to damage either himself or the wall itself, but enough to send a dull throb of pain across his left hand. After letting out a sigh, George turned the water off, and stepped out the shower.

He now brought his clothes actually into the bathroom with him, so as to avoid being nude around Clay — just that thought alone sent his skin crawling.

He opened the door and stepped out the bathroom, his towel in one hand, scrubbing at his wet hair, because he couldn’t stand the feeling of water dripping down his back and onto his dry clothes. The slightly cooler air of the dorm room hit him like a punch to the stomach as he entered the dorm, surprised to find himself surrounded by gloomy darkness.

He squinted, and his eyes instantly sought out the shape of Clay, perched on the windowsill.

George could only make out a hazy silhouette, like something out of a movie.

”Hi,” he said, feeling slightly unsure of himself as he stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, draping a towel round his shoulders, and staring at Clay. “What, er, what’re you doing sat in the dark?”

”Oh, I dunno,” Clay sighed softly, and George could see him a but clearer now, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. “I just... it’s calming, sitting here.”

“In the dark?”

He scoffed in amusement, “You make it sound creepy.”

”Not _creepy_ ,” George said slowly, still keeping his feet firmly rooted to the ground. “Just... surprising. You’re not smoking tonight, then?”

”No, Sapnap has the goods, anyway, couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

”Oh.”

“Come sit,” Clay said, and George jumped at the firmness in his voice. He squinted at the figure, eyes watching the vague shapes of his features as they watched each other. Then, Clay tilted his head in a teasing manner, and stretched out an arm, patting the area of the windowsill opposite to him, like an owner would to a dog. “Come on, Georgie, I don’t bite, you know.”

The idea of sitting in such close proximity to Clay was absolutely terrifying. They’d be so close together their knees would probably touch, and the prospect of that was simply mortifying.

”I’m glad you don’t,” George scoffed, trying to keep his voice from wavering with nerves. “Or else I’d be back in England by now.”

The silence that followed George’s statement told him that Clay most likely wasn’t going to take no for an answer. So, with trepidation crawling across his skin, and dread settling like a serpent in the pit of his stomach, George’s legs carried him over to the windowsill, and, holding his breath, he clambered on.

“ _There_ you go,” Clay said, in a tone that was so blatantly patronising. “Not too bad, eh?”

“Oh shut up,” George said, hoping Clay didn’t notice (or take offence if he did) the way he backed into the wall behind him as far as he could, in an attempt to expand the gap between them the most he could.

It was so uncomfortable, the way George was sat, he had half a mind to sit on the floor, but as Clay began to speak again, he lost that train of thought.

”D’you remember when we first met?” he pondered thoughtfully, his gaze returning to looking out the window.

George blinked at him.

”Of course I do,” he admitted, without a second thought. Clay’s eyes flickered momentarily to him with slight surprise as he added, “Fifteenth of August, at McCarthy’s.”

“That wasn’t too long ago,” Clay mused, resting his head back against the wall. “Feels like I’ve known you forever.”

George thought back to the day, only a few weeks ago. He remembered first seeing Clay, he remembered the smell of the dusty old vinyls in the record shop, he remembered the way he felt so inferior to Clay when they first met. It _did_ feel like forever ago.

“It does,” he mumbled, looking out the window also.

The grounds were strung with shadows, dancing and frolicking across the lawns, the tree branches waving gently in an almost undetectable wind.

”You know, when I first saw you,” Clay continued, and George was surprised by his talkativeness. He supposed the taller was in that melancholic sort of mood that night. So he let him talk. “I was surprised. In a good way,” he added, “But I wasn’t expecting you to be British... or to be as — as lovely as you are.”

George was glad it was dark enough for Clay to not see him blushing.

”I thought you were tall,” George croaked with a weak smile, and Clay snorted in a amusement, lifting a hand to his hair, running his fingers through it. “And, er, I liked your hair.” His face grew hot.

”Thank you,” Clay said quietly. “Mom always says it’s too long. Says I should cut it.”

”No,” George said quickly, “No, it’s at a good length now.”

George could hear the shit-eating grin Clay wore as he spoke. “It’s long enough for me to put it up into a man bun. Again, mom hates it. My little sister thinks I look like a homeless man.”

George forced his imagination to not begin creating images of Clay’s hair in a bun, because that was most definitely an easy way to get him severely distracted. Instead, he forced a light chuckle, swallowing thickly, and saying casually, “Your sister sounds great. I always forget you have one.”

”Two.”

”What?”

”I have two sisters, one younger one and one older one.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and a younger brother.”

George stared at him in surprise, “Huh. So _secretive_ , Clay.”

“I’m not _that_ secretive,” he said again, slowly, amusement tinting his voice as he shifted slightly, shuffling his legs forward a bit. George felt a flare of panic rise like bile in his throat, but he couldn’t move any further backwards. The exposed skin of their ankles were know brushing together, sending shivers up and down George’s arms. He gripped the fabric of his trousers, willing himself to stay still. Clay went oblivious to this, or if he knew, he did nothing that suggested he did. “I think I’m a pretty open person.”

George didn’t know how to respond. The light brushes of Clay’s exposed skin on his felt illegal. It felt wrong, and the way his stomach curled and twisted with an aching; a yearning to be touched... it made George feel like he was taking advantage of it.

He tried to subtly move his ankle away, but he was so caught up in the moment he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he exhaled shallowly through his mouth, suddenly aware of Clay watching him.

”You alright?” he asked gently, and George wanted to scream and curse, because there was genuine concern in his voice.

 _He’s so grotesquely kind to someone like me_ , George thought, as his breathing became shallower and shallower, and his mouth as dry as a desert, void of moisture.

”Yeah, yeah, don’t worry,” George said, forcing the childish tremors in his voice down.

There was an even longer pause, and George held his breath, only exhaling shakily when Clay began to speak again.

”I think _you’re_ quite secretive, George,” Clay said, and George blinked at him. There was no sense of accusation or spite hidden in him statement; the light way Clay said it made it seem like he was genuinely curious. Or perhaps that was a note of _worry_ George heard.

”You think so?”

”Yeah,” Clay hummed, and he moved again, one of his ankles now pressed against George’s leaning its weight against his, but Clay seemed unbothered. “I think so. I mean, it’s not necessarily a bad thing,” he added, probably taking George’s silence as a sign of upset. “Just... an observation I made.”

George gazed at him, ignoring the way his heart was thudding borderline painfully in his ribcage.

”You observe me a lot,” he admitted, feeling very vulnerable as they held eye contact.

”I think you’re... intriguing, that’s why,” Clay said earnestly. “I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

”It... it doesn’t, no.”

”But you are quite secretive, aren’t you?” Clay pressed, and George could make out the glint of curiosity shining in his eyes. “You didn’t deny it.”

“No, I didn’t,” George said, his voice nothing more than a mumble now, his words slurring slightly, as if he was drunk.

He felt slightly lightheaded — he did most of the time when he was in the presence of Clay; it was like just being around the boy made him intoxicated. As if the way he smiled, the way his eyes found his, the way he spoke, they all injected toxins into George’s bloodstream. The poison that fumbled with his mind and blurred coherent thoughts.

”I guess I am,” George said slowly, looking out the window again; anywhere other than Clay. “Secretive, that is. Having secrets of your own can be quite nice.”

”It can also be overwhelming,” Clay said ever so quietly. George spared a glance at him, and the boy was watching him, a tender look on his face. It was raw; emotional. “I speak from experience.”

”You do?”

A small breath of air escaped Clay’s lips, and he looked back out the window, like he was ashamed of looking at George for too long.

”I...” Clay hesitated, and George wondered what was going through his mind. He felt slight distress cloud his vision as he watched the blond unashamedly.

“I have ADHD,” he finally said, so quietly George nearly missed it. “And — that’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said, his voice suddenly fierce, like he was determined to remind himself that as well as George. “And I know that now, of course, but when I first came here to Hawthorne’s, I was so scared people would find out... and — and shun me, or something.”

His voice sounded so raw with emotion George felt himself utter Clay’s name before he could stop himself.

”Clay...” he whispered sorrowfully, and the blond screwed his eyes shut, shaking his head ferociously.

”No, no, I know it was dumb,” he said, waving a hand, and opening his eyes once more to look at George, a frown casting his face into shadows. “I mean, I know _now_. But it’s been so long that I’ve gone without people knowing, I don’t even want to bring it up again.”

It was like Clay was pouring the contents of his heart out to George, and in return, he was lapping it up. He felt like a monster — greedily consuming this boy’s darkest, deepest secrets, and what was he doing with them? What could he do with them?

The situation felt so intimate George felt the sudden, spontaneous urge to run.

Of course he didn’t — that’d be a dick move — but he took so long to formulate a response Clay got to speak before he did, his tone failing to hide his upset.

”You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

George goggled at him.

”Of course I bloody don’t,” he said quickly, voice laced with disbelief as he stared at Clay. He genuinely believed Clay was probably the most _sane_ person he’d met in his life, so to hear that uttered from Clay’s mouth, it was so ironic he nearly cried. “Oh, of course not. I think you’re very wise. Genuinely,” he said firmly, when the blond looked disbelieving. “I don’t think you’re crazy for not sharing your secrets.”

From what George could see in the dim lighting, Clay looked thoughtful.

“You alright?”

”Yeah...” Clay said slowly.

”Do Sapnap and Bad know?”

Clay started, like he’d been mulling in deep thoughts, “Er, yeah. They’re the only ones, though. Well... and you, now.”

This struck George rather suddenly. It was like solidifying the fact that George was a part of his life. He was then overwhelmed with an amount of inexplainable guilt, because Clay thought of him as a friend. A _friend_. Nothing more. But George — his mind was all over the place — if he were to find out somehow, what would happen to their friendship?

”As you Brits say,” Clay said with a surprising amount of cheeriness, nudging George with his foot, “Penny for your thoughts?”

”Just... why’d you tell me?”

”’Cause I trust you,” Clay said immediately, like he’d been expecting the question. He shrugged. “You’re my friend. Friends share secrets.”

 _Friends share secrets_. Clay was his friend, wasn’t he?

 _Friends share secrets_. Well, there was one blaringly obvious secret he could tell, one that would probably explain why at every slight movement Clay made, at every brush of his skin against his, George tensed. But, there were also the obvious reasons why he should never, ever venture down that path.

A sudden thought struck him, alongside a wave of spontaneity.

”You know I’m colourblind?”

“You — you’re _what?_ ”

“Colourblind.”

Clay’s face was so comically taken aback George couldn’t stop the burst of laughter that erupted from the back of his throat. He slapped a hand over his mouth to conceal his smile as he looked at Clay, who was watching him with slight horror.

”Why didn’t you tell me?” he exclaimed, aghast, eyes wide.

George let out a scoff, rolling his eyes humorously, “It’s a secret! You’re not _supposed_ to tell!”

”Yeah, but...” Clay still looked aghast; George’s grin was expanding by the minute, and his hand was back on his leg. His eyes were carefully watching Clay, as if he was subconsciously trying to study him. “But this is... so you can only see, like, in black and white?”

George snorted. “No, I have a type of colourblindness that only affects certain colours. It’s a type of red-green colourblindness, the doctors told me.”

”So... you can’t see green?” Clay asked blankly.

”Um, I can’t see _your_ version of green, no. _My_ green’s... yellow-ish.”

”But I love green,” Clay pouted childishly, frowning at George, who just shook his head, a grin playing at his lips, twisting his face. “Wait, what colour are my eyes, then?”

“Er...” George stared at him, taken aback. The boy’s gaze was so intense he felt himself gradually becoming flustered, as he stared back at Clay, looking at his bright eyes. Even in the darkness, the colour was clear to George. It was how he’d always seem green, but he supposed it would be yellow to others. And startlingly so. “Well, they’re green. My green... so... yellow, to you.”

”I have yellow eyes?” Clay asked in youthful excitement, leaning forwards slightly with a grin. George suppressed a laugh. “Like a hawk?”

”Oh yes,” George said sarcastically, ignoring how close Clay felt to him. He imagined if he leaned just a little bit closer, George would feel his breath on his cheek, and would be able to count each individual freckle across his nose. “You look _just_ like a hawk. Really, the resemblance is uncanny.”

Clay just grinned at him, leaning back slightly, and finally, _finally_ he moved his leg, and the skin of their ankles were no longer touching.

George hated the feeling of slight disappointment he couldn’t swallow down as Clay did this, the loss of touch even on an insignificant place like his ankle sending a cool feeling up his spine. He hated the way he yearned for the small amount of comfort touch would bring him.

”We should go to sleep,” Clay said eventually, looking slightly disappointed. “We have our first English exam tomorrow.”

He was right, of course, George knew he was right, but there was still a bitter feeling on his tongue, of wanting to stay up late, until the early hours of the morning, when he could pretend they were the only two people in the world.

And that night, Clay fell asleep, the soft sounds of snores being the only signal he was drifting to sleep.

George wasn’t mad, of course, but it didn’t stop the way his mind still missed the soft, comforting sound of Clay’s voice.


End file.
